Reasonable to Assume
by Saucery
Summary: Stiles and Derek raise a baby together. Or Stiles raises a baby; Derek just hangs around and panics.
1. Chapter 1

**REASONABLE TO ASSUME**

**- Part I -**

* * *

><p>It's kind of weird, having the house all to himself. Dad's away attending that compulsory three-week anti-terrorism seminar in Los Angeles, which is bizarre, since what are the odds of terrorists attacking <em>Beacon Hills<em>? An anti-werewolf training camp would be _way_ more useful. Not that Stiles is particularly anti-werewolf. These days.

Anyway, it's weird, and maybe a little lonely - not that Stiles will ever admit it, especially not to Dad, who might decide to dole out one of his irresistible but nonetheless emasculating hugs. Stiles makes up for it by spending his summer holidays pretty much hanging out at Scott's and playing video games, or hanging out at Danny's and playing video games, or hanging out in the forest and playing… tag. If that's what you can call it, given that Jackson's the Omega and is therefore always 'it'. It's sort of pathetic to watch, but mostly, it's hilarious. Deeply, _deeply_ hilarious. Stiles still isn't sure how the whole ranking thing works out, but somehow, both Scott _and_ Lydia are Betas, and Jackson's at the bottom of the pecking order. Stiles can't get enough of it.

Derek's still… Derek, except that he's even broodier and pissier than before. He can be pseudo-gentle, though, especially when it comes to his pack; he only brutalizes them about two-thirds of the time, and the _rest_ of the time, he just sits back and watches them with an almost-fond expression on his face. Maybe. Or possibly, Stiles is hallucinating. The forest probably has psychotropic qualities. It'd explain a lot. Especially about Scott, unless those _are_ just Allison's pheromones he's high on.

So, all in all, it's a weird but not-too-bad summer, until his phone vibrates at 7 a.m. one morning. In the _morning_, what the fuck is up with that?

Stiles feels the phone vibrating under his back - he's gotta stop sleeping with the thing - and scrambles for it sleepily, fumbling with its skin-warmed surface until he finds the right button.

"…'llo?" he croaks.

"Stiles," says Derek, and it's _Derek_, which isn't unusual, except that what he says next totally _is_. "Bring diapers."

"Huh?"

But Derek's hung up, and Stiles is left staring at the phone, wondering if the forest really _is_ psychotropic, after all.

* * *

><p>Stiles brings diapers.<p>

He _also_ buys baby powder from the local drugstore, not to mention Johnson's baby shampoo, moisturizer, milk powder and a rubber duck. Just 'cause. There's also a couple milk bottles from the time Aunt Judy stayed over with her twins, which he shoves into a plastic bag with vague ideas about boiling them as soon as he gets to the Hale house. Sanitization, he remembers, is important. And if he's also printed out all 204 pages of an ebook called _How to Take Care of Your Baby_ by Imogen Marsters on Dad's laser printer, well, that doesn't make him any less of a man.

At first, he'd wondered if Derek had suddenly aged and required continence diapers, but when he'd called Derek back to explain his brilliant theory, Derek had just _growled_, and yeah, that was a baby crying in the background.

A _baby_.

Derek had a baby.

_Derek_. Had. A _baby_.

Once Stiles's brain had stopped frying in its own juices (it didn't take too long; by now, he was _used_ to insanity), he'd promptly changed into his jeans, brushed his teeth and composed a mental list of things that Babies Absolutely Must Have. Then he'd looked up the Marsters ebook, printed it, and rushed off with his wallet and a sizable portion of his allowance. The lady in the drugstore had sniffed at him like he was crazy - or like he'd gotten a girl pregnant and was secretly buying supplies for her baby.

Stiles is pretty sure he hasn't gotten Derek pregnant. Given that Derek hasn't come within two feet of him since becoming an Alpha (it's been a strange experience, _not_ getting thrown against random surfaces), not that they'd ever gotten beyond the occasional awkward moment of is-it-eye-fucking-or-isn't-it, anyway. Also, why is he even thinking of baby-making and Derek in the same sentence? _Freaky._

He has no idea where the baby came from - but when he gets to Derek's place, he sure as hell is gonna find out.

* * *

><p>Stiles almost breaks his back, getting all the bags full of baby-things in the door, but he can't even notice the agony his muscles are in, because <em>he can hear the baby crying<em>. Wailing, even. An ear-piercing, head-splitting wail. Jesus, it's more like a car alarm than a sound that can even be produced by a biological being. It's a good thing Derek lives out in the woods, or the arrival of the baby would attract the attention of every single neighbor within hearing distance.

He leaves the bags by the entrance and heads into the newly-renovated living room, just in time to see Derek freaking out.

Well, okay, it's _Derek_, so the only way to tell he's freaking out is by noticing that his eyebrows are a little higher on his face and he looks less like a wanted felon out to kill someone than he does a cornered _beast_ out to kill someone. Derek is also standing at the opposite end of the room from the source of all the noise, as if just standing far away from the baby will make it go away.

"What are you _doing_?" Stiles hurries over to the basket - it's seriously a _basket_, Moses-style - that's sitting on the coffee table. "Have you even fed this kid?"

"I had nothing to feed it," says Derek, and, yeah, unless you count the mountains of red meat in his fridge or the bits of desiccated rabbit in the _garden_… uh.

Wow.

The baby… the baby is _furry_. Really furry. And Stiles has seen a few hairy babies, mostly because the guys on Mom's side of the family are hirsute and their little tykes are, too - but this isn't hairy, it's _furry_. Smooth, shiny, soft and furry. It's a naked boy-baby, and his fists are clenched tight, and his tiny mouth's wide open as he cries, affording Stiles a clear view of bumpy gums. Very _sharp_ bumpy gums. The sort that'll grow into fangs, not teeth.

It's just - it's a _mini-werewolf_, and it shouldn't be cute, except that it somehow _is_, because it's still helpless and small and the way its face is flushed red with distress just… makes Stiles want to chase all the bad things away.

Christ. Possibly he could've been more emotionally prepared for this. He hadn't realized that a werewolf baby was basically a cross between a puppy and a baby and therefore _doubled_ the cuteness factor, but, _damn_. This isn't just a baby, it's a weapon of mass _destruction_. No one, not even _Peter Hale_, could survive this level of cuteness. It's making pink clouds of… of _pinkness_explode inside his _brain_.

"So," says Stiles, when he gathers what's left of his wits, "he yours?"

"What?" Derek _barks_ the question.

"Uh, you know, is there some she-wolf you mated with out in the woods? Did she just drop him off? For the weekend, or whatever?"

"_He is not mine_," Derek growls, and the baby wails _louder_.

"Don't make that sound! It scares him!"

"Too bad. It's the first sound he heard me make."

"And now, he won't let you near him without crying." Then, Stiles realizes something. "You _growled_ at a _baby_?"

Derek looks _uncomfortable_, and it's so _wrong_ seeing that expression on an Alpha's face that Stiles _goggles_. "I… was not growling at him."

"Then who _were_ you growling at?"

Derek rolls his shoulders - his very, very huge shoulders, that seem to have gotten even _huger_ since he became the Alpha. "I don't know. I woke to an unfamiliar scent near the house, and ran out to check who it was. It smelled like a female werewolf - a female _unknown to me_." He's glaring at Stiles, again. Why is he glaring at Stiles? Isn't it a perfectly reasonable assumption to make, that a dude with a surprise!baby might actually have fathered said baby? On someone?

"Right," says Stiles. "So - you were chasing an intruder. Growling _while_ chasing an intruder. And then what?"

"I found _this_ on the doorstep." Derek's voice sharpens when he says 'this', like it's an accusation. "I couldn't keep chasing whoever it was."

"Why not? …Oh, wait, don't answer that. You couldn't leave a baby alone in an abandoned house in the middle of a forest with potential predators in it. Fine. So the kid heard you growling, the first time he met you, and now he thinks you're a bad man." Stiles can't help the smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "How's that feel? Being villanized by an infant?"

"Shut up," says Derek, somehow managing _not_ to growl - even though he wants to, it's totally obvious from his eyebrows. "And do something."

"Do something?" Stiles is out-and-out _grinning_, now. "About what?"

"About _that_."

The baby's still crying. A lot lower, now that Derek isn't being the Big Bad Wolf, and Stiles is drawn to the kid's side like a magnet.

"Hey, little guy," he says, softly, and meets the baby's eyes. They blink at him, iridescent-green and wet, the baby temporarily distracted from his crying by the sight of a new face. "The mean wolf spooked you, didn't he? Don't worry. I won't let him hurt you."

"What are you _saying_?" Derek hisses. "I would never hurt a - "

"Be quiet, Derek," says Stiles, sweetly, still smiling down at the kid. "You're hungry, aren't you? There's some milk on the way."

"Milk," mutters Derek, off to the side. "I forgot to ask you to buy milk."

"I bought it, anyway." Still out of the corner of his mouth, he tells Derek: "Go get the bags by the door, would you? Take the powder out, mix it with water and boil it on the stove. Boil one of the bottles, too. _Separately_. Then put the milk in the bottle and bring it here, okay? We'll have to wait for it to cool before he can drink from it."

Derek just _stands_ there. What, does he think he's too Alpha to boil a baby's milk? Tough luck.

"Do you want him to starve to death, or what?"

Derek goes.

Stiles hears the rustling of plastic bags in the corridor, and he reaches down to touch the baby, fingers resting on his cheek, and, wow, that fur's the most velvety, most unbelievably irresistible thing _ever_. He looks back into the baby's eyes - as if asking for permission - and reaches under that tiny body to lift it up. The baby stops sniffling _entirely_, startled into silence.

"Whoa, hey, you're _light_. Lighter than a feather, almost. A really furry feather. Fluffy feather. _God_, you're fluffy. And naked. Very naked. That embarrass you? Or does the fur make up for it?"

The baby just _looks_ at him.

"How old are you? You can't be more than, what, three months old? Four? Practically newborn. Damn, you're cute. Scary-cute. Cute-scary. I don't even _know_. You have a name?"

The baby's feet kick slightly.

"Lemme guess. It ain't Jarvis. Because, you and a giant suit of sentient armor? Not much in common. Except for the sentience. And, you know, the ability to level entire _cities_. One, with firepower; the other, with cute. You're _cuuuuuuuute_," he says, and hugs the baby to him.

He hopes he's holding it correctly; Aunt Judy seemed to think he had a talent for it, at least, which is a comfort. With one palm cradling the baby's head and the other under his velvet-furred bottom, he holds the baby close, and whispers to him.

"Cutest thing _ever_, that's what you are. Oh, yeah. Do that cooing thing. You like it when I hug you? You like being hugged? 'Course you do. It's the Stilinski hug, man, it's the best hug in the _world_. We, like, have the hugging _gene_. We're hugging_mutants_. Rawr. Rawwwrrrr, see? It's not scary. Not when a hug-wolf does it. _Way_ better than a sour-wolf, right?"

"What are you saying to him?"

Oops. Derek's back, and he's holding a milk bottle like it's a _club_. Isn't Derek _ever_ going to stop with the caveman routine?

"Um, just. You know. Propaganda? Perfectly harmless propaganda? That favors Stilinskis over Hales? What?"

Derek stares at him like he's insane. Hey, _Stiles_ isn't the one that can't even cope with a _baby_.

Stiles sighs, sits down on the couch, and settles the baby on his lap. "Gimme that bottle."

Derek gives him the bottle. And immediately steps back, like there's a defense perimeter around the baby that he can't breach, probably because it's lined with _mines_.

It's Stiles's turn to stare. "Are you _frightened_ of the baby?"

"No," says Derek, too quickly. "I just - don't know what to do with him."

"You're a werewolf! He's a werebaby! How can you _not_ know what to do with him?"

"I was the youngest in my family," says Derek, defensively. "I have no experience with cubs."

"Cu - _cubs_. Uh-huh. Which, all right, he _is_ a cub, but, seriously?" Stiles isn't going to snicker. He _isn't_. "So what you're telling me is that you can't handle a baby because you used to _be_ the baby. Of your family."

Derek's brows _lower_.

"Don't growl! I can see your eyes doing that Red October thing, but it isn't the best idea right now, okay? The kid's just stopped crying."

Derek _pauses_, like someone literally pressed the pause-button, and nods. His eyes clear.

Stiles wonders just how painful those high-pitched cries must be for fully-grown, highly sensitive werewolf ears. Derek doesn't usually cooperate like this. With anything Stiles suggests, let alone - well, anything.

Or maybe Derek's just desperate. The thought's honestly _funny_ - that Derek Hale, Alpha of Beacon Hills, overly muscular ex-convict and badass, parricidal mofo, is desperate for a babysitter.

Stiles _laughs_.

Derek clenches his jaw.

"Look, I'm sorry, just - heh. Can you blame me? Also, have you told Scott? About our li'l guest?"

"I sent him a message soon after I sent you one."

"And?"

"He didn't show up. He must've thought it was a joke."

Stiles… blinks. "He still thinks you're capable of a sense of humor?"

Derek _scowls_.

"Hey, _chill_. I hate to say this about my best friend, but… he isn't the brightest wolf in the pack." That word, 'pack', reminds him of a question that's been niggling at him. "Why'd you even ask _me_, first? Why not Lydia?" No one in their right _minds_ would ask Jackson, but Lydia had to be the likeliest candidate, didn't she?

Derek's scowl deepens. "Why would I ask her?"

"Uh. Because she's… one of your Betas? And, yeah, she's a single child, but she's a girl, so that's gotta give her some innate talent for soothing babies."

"You share Scott's lack of understanding about your pack."

"My - _my_ pack?"

But Derek goes _rigid_, from head to toe, like he's said something he shouldn't have. The scowl's replaced by that cornered look.

Stiles gapes, fascinated. The baby gurgles in his lap. "Um," says Stiles. "That - I didn't know that. That you thought - that."

"Forget about it. Feed the baby."

_Forget_ about it? Derek, the _Alpha_, thinks Stiles is a member of his _pack_, and Stiles is supposed to _forget_ about it? "The bottle's not cool enough."

Derek narrows his eyes.

Stiles narrows his right _back_.

Finally, astonishingly, Derek looks away. It's a surrender of such epic proportions - for a _werewolf_ - that Stiles can barely process it. "It isn't a big deal," Derek says. "You must remember how I told you and Scott that my family once consisted of both humans and werewolves."

"Yeah. Yeah, you did, come to think of it -"

"That's all it is."

"That's - " But that's _not_ all it is. Stiles doesn't know how, but he can _feel_ it, in the way Derek's shoulders are tense, in the way the silence that falls _between_ them is tense.

Usually, Stiles would just badger Derek into telling him what was up, but Derek's weirdly edgy, like he might jump out of a window, or something. It's downright _bizarre_.

So Stiles files this away in his mind, in the file titled, 'Things To Talk About With Derek Hale in the Unlikely Event That He is Sane, Drugged Into Complacency or is Otherwise Restrained and is Unable to Maul Me'. His Derek-files tend to have long names. Derek's that kind of guy. "Fine," says Stiles, like he means it, and Derek can always tell when he's lying, but Derek - again, astonishingly - doesn't comment on it.

"Is the milk cool enough, yet?"

Wow, what a smooth subject change. Not. "Yep, I think it is."

Stiles uncaps the bottle, and the smell of milk intensifies. The baby must be able to smell it, too - better than _Stiles_ can - because his furry hands make vague grabbing motions, eyes fixed on the bottle like heat-seeking missiles on a soon-to-be-blasted-into-smithereens target. His irises even glow green. "Would you look at that. Just like Daddy."

"I'm _not_ his father - "

"Didn't say you were." Stiles quirks a grin at Derek, and plugs the rubber nipple into the baby's mouth. The kid does this full-body _freeze_, toes pointing straight out, before he starts sucking frantically.

It's the most adorable thing he's ever seen. His heart literally _thumps_ in his chest. And maybe the baby hears it, because he snuggles _closer_, and gazes up at Stiles with a pleased, deeply satisfied face. His mouth keeps on sucking, though, like it's on autopilot.

"Hey, kiddo. You _were_ hungry, huh? You've been a sweetheart, really, even though Derek's, like, the _worst_ host."

"Stiles."

"Stop trying to defend yourself to an _infant_, dude. It's pathetic."

"Stop trying to make me look bad in front of one. That's pathetic, too."

Stiles sticks out his tongue. At _Derek_, but the kid probably finds it amusing, because he makes this fart-noise around his bottle.

"At least you can _laugh_. Sourwolf, here? Wouldn't know comedy if the entire cast of Monty Python took up residence inside his_head_."

"I don't own a television."

"See? Clearly, a deficient being. With many deficiencies."

"_Stiles_."

"What?" Stiles glances up at Derek - and he totally expects Derek to be glowering, except… he's not. He's got that _look_ on his face - that look he gets when he watches Lydia and Scott and Jackson playing wolf-tag in the woods.

It's… Stiles doesn't know what that look is. But Derek's giving it to _him_, has it _because_ of him, and that's -

Stiles doesn't know what that means, either. Except that it makes his throat go dry.

"You're good with cubs," Derek says, out of the blue, and Stiles starts. The baby's fist comes up to clutch Stiles's shirt, as if to keep him still.

"Uh. You could write me a letter of recommendation? If I ever decide to become a professional _au pair_?"

Derek snorts. "It would suit you."

"I was _joking_. I - ohmygod, you just made a joke, _too_. You made a _joke_. _You_ made a joke. Where is my camera. Where is _any_camera. This moment needs to be recorded for posterity. It needs to be recorded for your _cubs_, man."

"My cubs," says Derek, and stills. All over.

"Um. Yeah? You need some, right? Eventually? To build your pack?"

"Scott and Jackson both have mates. They can produce cubs."

"What about you? Doesn't the Alpha have to produce cubs, _too_? Although, what is _up_ with that word? 'Produce,' like it's - like it's a _factory line_, or - "

"Will you look after them?"

"What?"

"My cubs," Derek repeats, patiently, and his eyes are strangely intent. They're red, again, but it isn't the angry red. It's… something else. Something that goes along with that _other_ expression Derek had been wearing. "Will you look after them, the way you're looking after this cub?"

…What.

What _even_ -

"Well, yeah," says Stiles, even though he gets the feeling that he isn't, actually, answering the question. And he has no idea _why_. "I mean, I - if I'm still in Beacon Hills when that happens, sure. Why not?"

"Why not," echoes Derek, and his eyes are seriously starting to bore _holes_ into Stiles's _skull_.

This time, it's Stiles that has to look away. At the baby, because the baby's _safe_, because the baby's _tiny_, because the baby needs him now, and not X number of years in the future, to fulfill some ludicrous promise about potential offspring. What?

He isn't thinking about it. He _isn't_.

"Yo, Jar," he says to the baby, instead, tilting the rapidly-emptying bottle. "When you're done feeding, we'll give you a little bath, and then we'll put you in diapers, how's that sound? It sounds _awesome_, I know, because who _wants_ to poop all over themselves? Not a sophisticated dude like you, I bet. Ain't that right? You _know_ it's right. Mm-hm. Drink that milk."

Derek is… still looking at him. Stiles can _sense_ it. "What is 'Jar'?"

"His name," says Stiles, not returning Derek's creepy stalker-scrutiny. "I can't keep calling him 'little guy' and 'mini-wolf' and 'tiny tot', can I? That sort of thing'll give him a complex. For _life_. Possibly a size complex. Which is the cruelest thing you can give to a guy, you _know_ that."

"Jar." Derek tries it out. "What does it stand for?"

"Jarvis."

"Jarvis." _And_ Derek's back to sounding like Stiles is insane. It's enough of a relief that Stiles manages to return his gaze. Derek looks - there is no other word for it - incredulous. His eyebrows don't even seem to know what to do.

Stiles beams at him. "Isn't it the coolest name in _history_? It's the name of Iron Man's armor! Smartest piece of military technology in the fictional future. According to the _House of M_, anyway."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"It's a _comic book_, Derek. Ever read those? They're like books, except with comics in them?"

"You named a cub… after a comic book."

"After a character _in_ a comic book. An artificially intelligent character with, like, a nuclear arsenal up its _sleeve_. Its very shiny, metallic sleeve. Uh. What's wrong?"

But Derek's busy acting like Peter Hale had acted when Scott's username _and_ password had turned out to be 'Allison'.

How unfair is it that _this_ is when Stiles finally gets the family resemblance? "Dude, you're a mythology nerd. A _mythology nerd_. You do not have the _right_ to look down on a _geek_, okay? Because, geeks? Trump nerds. Any _day_."

"My thorough knowledge of Celtic mythology is a must - "

"Yeah. That explains why, along with the wolfsbane stuff, you also have stuff on _love potions_. And _fertility potions_."

"You - who showed you my library?"

"It may have been Jackson," says Stiles, which is totally a lie, it was _Scott_, but maybe this can get Jackson kicked around some more.

Sadly, Derek sees - _smells_, whatever - through his lie. Like always. "I will kill Scott," he says, with absolute, menacing _certainty_, and Stiles gulps. Jar actually _flinches_ a little, in his lap. And stops sucking.

"You've scared him again!"

"You goaded me into scaring him."

"That doesn't even make any _sense_. Either calm the hell down, or leave the room. Jar has to feed."

They glare at each other.

Jar burps. And resumes sucking.

They _keep_ glaring at each other.

"You do realize," Derek grits out, "that I'm the Alpha."

"And that you could break my scrawny little neck like a twig? Yeah. Now, could you please _leave the room_ if death threats are the only things you can produce in the presence of _infants_?"

"I wasn't - " Derek blinks, and his eyes are back to a shocked, human blue. "I wasn't threatening you."

"You sure weren't. 'Cause who else will take care of the cubs? Cub," he quickly corrects, when Derek's eyes _widen_. "This cub. This cub, _specifically_. Jarvis, named after the best automail _ever_, and that includes _Fullmetal Alchemist_. Damn, I've gotta catch up on my summer anime. What? What're you gawking at?"

"I," says Derek. "That. Is there. What should I do with the other bottles."

"Boil them, too. Oh, and draw a bath. He's gonna need one."

"Good," says Derek, still looking like he's been hit over the head. "That's - good."

Stiles watches him go. And wonders what the hell gets into Derek, sometimes.

"We'll try to find your Mommy and Daddy," says Stiles to Jar, in a confidential tone, "but if you _do_ stay here, be warned - stepdaddy is one _weird_ son of a - b-word that I cannot use in front of a baby. Yeah."

Jar stretches contentedly. And keeps on feeding.


	2. Chapter 2

**REASONABLE TO ASSUME**

**- Part II -**

* * *

><p>Chapter five of Imogen Marsters' <em>How to Take Care of Your Baby<em> is about bonding. Bonding by touch; bonding by voice; bonding by feeding. The problem is that it focuses on how important it is for the _mother_ to bond with her baby, and Stiles… isn't Jar's Mom. Jar's _real_ Mom is currently AWOL in places unknown, and the only reason Stiles is even _here_ is because Derek seems to be laboring (no pun intended) under the delusion that Stiles is somehow a part of his _pack_, rather than just the token attention-deficit hanger-on _of_ said pack.

Still. Bonding. Is important. Very, very important. And just in case they don't find Jar's mother anytime soon, Jar's going to need a psychologically healthy, structured environment that sensitizes him to touch and other people's emotions.

That's, uh. That's what the book says.

So Stiles cuddles the werebaby, and feeds the werebaby, and talks to the werebaby (which is the easiest of all, since, well, _Stiles_). He also changes diapers and makes splashy noises in the bath and teaches the kid how to giggle - because, seriously, if Jar grows up to be the broody sort? Like Derek? That'll be just plain _depressing_.

Thankfully, Jar exhibits a stellar sense of humor for a however-month-old, and even though his laughs continue to resemble fart-noises, they're _cute_. Possibly that is _why_ they are cute. Stiles can't get enough of them, and will do anything to _earn_ them - even if it means having to roll around on the rugs in Derek's living room and make silly faces.

Stiles is fond of silly faces, so that's okay. Arguably, Stiles's default face _is_ a silly face, so that's even better.

He's getting good at this stuff. He's sure he is.

_Derek_, though, just sort of looms pointlessly and runs errands that don't involve direct tactile contact with the baby, which is ridiculous _and_ bad for Jarvis, so Stiles literally has to sit him down one day (three days after Jar's arrival, actually) and have an Awkward Co-Parenting Talk.

"So," he says, as Derek - shuffles. And obviously tries not to notice the fact that Jar is, for all intents and purposes, _mouthing at Stiles's nipple_. Through his T-shirt.

Yeah. Awkward co-parenting. Is awkward. Stiles shifts the baby to his other knee, and reaches for the dummy he'd gotten Scott to buy on his last visit to Walmart, since Stiles was too busy juggling a newborn werewolf and an Alpha with intimacy issues to spare the time for another shopping trip.

Jar is, thankfully, distracted by the dummy, and leaves Stiles's nipple alone.

There's still a damp patch over it, though. Stiles… doesn't twitch.

"Uh," he says, when he realizes that Derek has finally lost all semblance of propriety and is openly _staring at Stiles's chest_. Stiles clears his throat. "Up here, please?"

Derek's eyes snap up to meet his. Derek is… not _blushing_, no, since an Alpha werewolf wouldn't _do_ something so absurd, but - there's definitely an air of embarrassment, there.

"Aaaaand we're just going to pretend none of that ever happened. Also, what the hell are you doing, not touching the kid? Like, not _ever_ touching the kid?"

"He's frightened of me."

"Maybe he's frightened of you _because_ you never touch him? Ever thought of that?"

"I - "

"Excuses, excuses. Look, both paren - uh, not that we're - but you're - you're one of his caretakers, all right? _Both caretakers_have to touch the baby. It's in the book." Stiles jerks his chin at the stapled printout that's lying on the coffee table, conveniently flipped open to page 78, titled, 'The Importance of Touch'.

Derek barely gives it a glance. "I've got other things to do. I must locate Jarvis's pack - "

"And give him back to them as some kind of emotionally damaged, neglected werebaby? Yeah, I'm sure that'll go down _real_ well in terms of inter-pack politics. Which I've _also_ been reading up on, by the way. From _your_ library."

Derek… looks at him. Just _looks_ at him, without wolfing out or going Sauron-eyed, which is a pretty recent development, but also pretty awesome, since it means that Stiles can actually talk to him like a _person_ and not be afraid of, like, getting his _throat_ripped out.

"Not to mention that it's only about two weeks until Dad gets back, and another two before school starts, and - who's gonna look after the baby, then? It can't be Lydia, 'cause she'll be at school, too, and it sure as hell can't be _Jackson_. Or Scott. Those two could kill a _potted plant_ between them, one from sheer malice, and the other from an inability to understand _basic photosynthesis_."

Derek… doesn't deny that his pack consists of nothing but schoolgirls, bullies and idiots. "Hm."

"It has to be _you_, okay? _You're_ going to be the one looking after the baby. Even if I rush back here after school everyday, you're going to be in charge _the rest of the time_. Which means you need to know this stuff."

"I've been watching you. I know what to do."

"Yes, Creeper-Man, you've been watching me. And no, you _don't_ know what to do. Observation is _useless_ for stuff like this, all right? The only reason I can even pick Jar up without dropping him on his _head_ is because Aunt Judy came to stay with us when she was sick, and I had to look after her twins. _Twins_, Derek. Imagine that."

Derek looks - well, _intimidated_ isn't the word, but it's a near thing. He's probably having visions of the Apocalypse. Babypocalypse.

"Touch him."

Derek doesn't move.

"_Touch him_. Or, if you _can't_, Mr. Scaredy-Pants - "

"I am _not_ scared - "

"Says the guy that can't touch a _baby_?"

"He'll cry."

"And shatter your sensitive werewolf eardrums? Too bad. Get ear-muffs, or something. _Touch him_."

Okay, _now_ Derek looks intimidated.

Stiles sighs. And grabs Derek's hand.

Derek _freezes_. Like he's trying not to flip out and bite Stiles's head _off_, because, yeah, intimacy issues. Derek's fine with manhandling _other_ people, but he doesn't like it when other people touch _him_. Maybe his _own_ Mom didn't do the whole bonding thing, but Derek is sure gonna get a crash course in it, now.

"Touch _me_, then."

But Derek sort of just… sits there, staring at Stiles's fingers.

God, he's useless.

Stiles moves closer, hitching Jar so that he's settled between them, head on Stiles's lap and feet on Derek's. Jar wiggles. "Feel that? That's a baby. A wiggly baby. Feel his feet? Those're his feet, kicking at you. Like the Karate Kid. Something tells me he's going to be _great_ at martial arts."

"He is… small."

"Yeah, genius, he's _small_. He's a _cub_. And _this_," Stiles says, taking Derek's hand and bringing it up to Jarvis's face, his soft-furred, tender face, "is Jarvis. Say hello, Jarvis."

Jar… meeps. Or makes a sound a lot _like_ a meep.

Stiles is pretty sure his heart is actually melting right out of his body. His chest cavity feels like the insides of a caramel pudding - a pudding that's been microwaved for that perfect, extra fifteen seconds, until its center is all melty and warm and… and melty. Jesus.

"You smell - " But then, Derek cuts himself _off_.

Stiles turns to look at him, and, hey, this is the closest he's been to Derek since he became the Alpha and stopped throwing Stiles around like his very own rag-doll. Stiles still isn't sure _why_ Derek stopped doing that, but he's not complaining. "_Me?_Shouldn't you be paying attention to the _baby_?"

"I am. You - you smell of the cub."

"Yeah, well, of _course_ I smell of the cub, I do almost nothing all day but _touch_ the cub - "

"You smell of _another wolf's_ cub."

Stiles… stares. He - he _stares_, because - "What?"

"I don't like it." And, whoa, Derek's eyes are _red_ again, but at least he as the presence of mind to look _away_ from Jarvis while he's going all Evil Android. Cylon. Whatever.

But, seriously, what the _hell_? "Is this a pack thing? A… people-in-your-pack-shouldn't-smell-like-another-pack thing?"

"Yes," says Derek, but to Stiles, it sounds a lot like, _No_. A big, giant **NO**, even, painted in blazing colors on a massive billboard next to an empty highway in the middle of nowhere.

"Right," says Stiles, and adds this to the 'Things To Talk About With Derek Hale' file. He doesn't, in fact, have the time or patience to deal with Derek's _issues_. Not when Jar's right here, on the brink of being parentally neglected and scarred for _life_. "So, _back_ to the baby. Who's way more important than your gourmet sense of smell, okay?"

Derek tightens his jaw.

"Uh-_huh_. Listen up, man. Wolf. Wolf-man. This kid? Is _your_ responsibility. He was left at _your_ door."

"I didn't ask for him."

Stiles wants to grab Derek by the collar and _shake_ him, but that _will_ get him killed, so he doesn't do it. What he _does_ do is grab Derek's hand tighter, and move it down to Jar's chest, so that Derek can _feel_ that tiny heart beating. "You didn't ask for Scott, either, when Peter turned him. Does that mean Scott isn't your responsibility?"

Derek… stills.

"Does it?"

"You - " Derek shakes his head, grits his _teeth_, and probably chants a thousand Buddhist prayers or whatever he does to make his really quite bad case of red-eye go away. And then, suddenly, he's _everywhere_, arm around Stiles _and_ and the cub, and Stiles is kind of… stuck there, in a werewolf sandwich, with a werewolf at his back and a werebaby on his lap.

Derek is breathing on his _neck_. Or maybe breathing _in_; there's clearly some inhaling going on, there.

"You're right," says Derek, and, wow, statement of the _century_. What Stiles would give to record that and replay it at every possible opportunity. Or _im_possible opportunity. Or just, like, _all the time_. It should be the soundtrack of Stiles's _life_.

"Good," says Stiles, trying not to notice that grown werewolves are, like, seriously _hot_. In - in terms of temperature. _Just_temperature. Stiles's back is going to start _sweating_. "Ah. G-good?"

"Mm."

"Maybe you could… let go, now? Of me, not the baby. 'Cause you still need to hold the baby."

"I've found a solution."

"To what? Your issues with _personal space_? 'Cause I'm thinking, _no_. You haven't."

"If the cub carries my scent, then you will carry my scent."

Uh. What? "So you're saying that you'll hold the baby?"

"I'll hold the baby."

"Dude, this reverse-engineering stuff _rocks_. Okay, so I'm - going to move out from under your arm, here - "

Derek's arm _tightens_.

"I. I thought you were letting me go?"

"I am."

"No, you're not. You're really, really not. At _all_. Letting me go."

"I will."

"When?"

"When the scenting is complete."

Stiles… wonders how his life got to this point. He honestly _wonders_. "Okay," he says, carefully, like you would in the presence of a crazy person who is either balanced on the edge of a roof or is within easy reach of several sharp objects. Which, in Derek's case, is totally true; his fangs and his claws aren't out, _yet_, but if Stiles makes a move, they _will_ be. Stiles can _feel_ it. "All right."

They sit there.

All three of them.

Jarvis appears to have fallen asleep.

There's a low, perpetual rumble coming from Derek's chest, something that Stiles would classify as a purr, if it wouldn't get him, like, summarily _beheaded_.

Derek's _mouth_ is buried in his _neck_.

Stiles is - Stiles is -

Stiles's higher-order brain functions will come back online, any _minute_ now.

Any - any minute. Now.

Now?

_Now_, please.

Finally, however many eons later, the door swings open - and in tumbles Scott, carrying a shitload of bags, followed by Jackson, who manages to be at least twenty percent more coordinated.

"Hi," says Stiles, pretending that there isn't a sub-sonic non-purr coming from the Alpha that's currently wrapped _around_ him like the world's most muscular Snuggie blanket.

"Uh. Hi." Scott's gaping at them. Scott's _gaping_ at them, like a cartoonish illustration of the Eureka moment, and Stiles is absolutely, painfully certain that he does _not_ want to know what that moment is about. Or what epiphany Scott thinks he's_having_.

"Did you get the diapers?"

"Yes, we got the diapers," mimics Jackson, and there's this mean little twist to the edge of his mouth. Bastard. He thinks this is_funny_. "And the canned milk. And the baby-clothes. And the mittens. And the washtub. And the cream. And the wipes. Anything else, Mommy?"

Stiles _glares_.

"Ooh, that's scary. Not. Derek?"

"Mm," says Derek, apparently still stuck in pre-verbal caveman mode. His brimstone-and-gravel voice reverberates right along the skin of Stiles's _throat_, and Stiles… does not shiver. He _doesn't_.

"Are we having pizza tonight, or what? 'Cause Scott could go and pick some up."

"Hey," says Scott, snapping to indignant life. "Why do _I_ have to pick it up? You're the Omega!"

"I'm pulling more than my fair share of weight, okay? Which is _way_ more than - "

"Quiet," says Stiles, making his tone _hard_, the way he has to, whenever Jar's sleeping and everyone else in the pack is being a noisy moron. "You're _both_ getting the pizza."

"I wasn't asking _you_," says Jackson, mutinously. "I was asking _Derek_. Derek?"

"Mm," says Derek.

Stiles raises his eyebrows. "I rest my case."

"You - what have you _done_ to him?" Jackson's starting to look _suspicious_. "He's… he's in some sort of _trance_ - wait. He isn't_high_, is he?"

The thought of Derek being high - on _anything_ - is so ridiculous that Stiles almost _laughs_. But that'd wake Jar up, so all Stiles does is… shrug. As much as he can, given the fact that Derek's arm weighs, like, a metric _kiloton_ and is getting heavier by the minute. Stiles is going to have to schedule some alone-time with Dad's massage chair, just to work all the knots out of his shoulders.

"Nah," says Scott, relatively unconcerned. "He's just scent-marking. You know, like I do with Allison."

With - with _Allison_?

Scott. Does _this_. With _Allison_.

And Derek's -

Derek's -

With -

"I think you broke his brain," Jackson snickers, eyes gleaming. "So this is what I have to do, too?"

"Once you get a mate, sure."

"Dude, I totally _have_ a mate. Lydia, remember?"

"Uh, didn't you _dump_ Lydia? Also, doesn't she try to claw your _eyes_ out whenever we're playing tag?"

"It isn't tag," Jackson mutters. "It's - "

And then the door closes behind them, because they've ostensibly gone back out to get some pizza, and Lydia'll be joining them whenever she's back from her girl-date with Allison, because even if Lydia pretends to go on diets all the time, everybody _knows_that no one loves junk food more than she does. Not even Stiles.

Stiles - Stiles is going to think about the pack's dietary habits.

He's going to think about anything, anything at _all_, other than what -

What -

_What_.

Derek.

_Derek_.

Just. _What_.

"Mmrrr?" says Jarvis, drowsily, his fist closing tight around Stiles's finger, his sleeping face scrunching up in confusion.

"Oh, believe me, man," says Stiles, softly. "I _know_."


	3. Chapter 3

**REASONABLE TO ASSUME**

**- PART III -**

* * *

><p>Stiles doesn't often get to hang out with Lydia - <em>just<em> with Lydia - mostly because Jackson follows her everywhere and is pathetically obvious with his I'm-the-man-no-really routine, in which Jackson pretends desperately to be anything other than an Omega with no standing whatsoever, and Lydia relishes every moment of _reminding_ him of it.

It's like watching torture. Truly, deeply sadistic torture. _Psychological_ torture. If there's a repressive regime out there with a vacancy in the Torture and Interrogation Department, Lydia should definitely apply.

But today, Jackson's with his parents, doing… whatever the Whittemores do during family reunions, which is apparently what the Whittemores are having, this evening, with relatives who're visiting from out-of-state. Jackson only shrugs and scowls before heading out, like everyone doesn't know he's having a nervous breakdown. Jackson _hates_ family reunions. Which makes Stiles wonder why he wanted to join a _pack_, of all things, unless, of course, that's _why_ he wanted to join a pack.

It isn't even about the adoption. Or, well, it's not _all_ about the adoption, Stiles doesn't think. It's about the Whittemores, and their we're-so-perfect vibe, and the fact no one, not even Jackson, Mr. Awesome McShmawesome, can ever measure up.

There are times when Stiles realizes how grateful he is for his Dad. _His_ Dad only ever expects him to, like, be himself. And try not to blow up the house whenever he cooks. Or blow up the _car_ whenever he drives. Or blow up the lab when he's at school, trying to get Scott interested in Chemistry by proving that, yes, under certain circumstances, covalent bonds _can_ make things explode. Or, in Scott-speak, go BOOM.

He does it all for science. Science, and the edification of Scott's mind.

"So, tell me," says Lydia, now that Derek is grudgingly doing his share of baby-duty and Stiles is pretty much just stuck in the kitchen, boiling bottles. If Derek hadn't blown most of his savings on renovating the house (and, unnecessarily, the stables - what'll they do with _stables_? Grow horses for lunch and then eat them?), the pack could _totally_ have afforded an automatic sterilizer. Stiles has kind of been having indecent fantasies about it, ever since he saw it on Walmart's online catalogue.

"What?" Stiles turns his thoughts away from visions of pristine, shiny bottles emerging from a steamy cavern of automated bliss. "Um, sorry. What'd you say?"

"_Tell me_," says Lydia, shamelessly double-dipping her nachos in _everyone's_ sour cream. Turning into a werewolf has obviously sabotaged _her_ scruples, too. "Why aren't you living here?"

"Uh, I sort of am? In case you hadn't noticed. I'm spending the _nights_ here. Since Derek will probably pull a Godzilla if he has to change diapers at 2 AM. Although he'll have to do it when my Dad comes back, anyway…"

"No, dumbass." Lydia rolls her eyes. "I meant, why don't you have multiple changes of clothes, here? Like, at least _five_ changes of clothes?"

"What's the big deal? I have two shirts; that's enough. I just wash one while I'm wearing the other one."

"Well, you smell."

"I - I _what_?" Stiles sticks his nose into his armpit. "I do _not_."

"Yes, you do. You keep swapping the same two shirts; you smell of nothing but cub and milk. Basically, you smell like werewolf boner."

"Were - "

"Or something that'll _give_ a werewolf a boner."

"I - "

"What? Don't tell me you're _surprised_. Derek keeps grabbing you and scenting you. It's ridiculous."

It _is_ ridiculous, but Stiles is doing his level best not to _think_ about it. Because Derek's - Derek's clearly touch-deprived, or something. Like a lab monkey. Or a prison inmate. (Huh. He _was_ a prison inmate. For a while.) That, or Jarvis's appearance has pulled some weird evolutionary bullshit on him and Derek's just… wolfing out. A lot. A-_lot_-a-lot.

Stiles… Stiles isn't thinking about it.

"Am I giving _you_ a boner?" he asks, instead.

"I'm a _girl_, you moron. But still…" She looks uncomfortable. "It makes me want to _get pregnant_."

"_What?_ That's - that's really specific, isn't it?"

"Something about biorhythms and menstrual cycles. I read about it, once, but I didn't think it'd happen to _me_."

Stiles… is trying to pick his jaw back up from the floor. _Trying_ being the operative word. "I, uh. You should know that I'm not, actually, ovulating."

Lydia levels a glare at him.

"No, seriously. Just because I'm handling a _baby_, doesn't mean - doesn't mean I'm a _chick_, all right?"

"You're an idiot," Lydia says. "It's not about that."

"What _is_ it about?"

"Change. Your. _Clothes_. Or get an industrial-power laundry detergent, I don't _care_, just - " Lydia waves her hand at him, like his very existence is an offense against nature. Which, given what Lydia's just told him, Stiles might even believe is _true_. " - get rid of that scent."

Time for revenge. Timely revenge. For revenge is _always_ timely. "Maybe Jackson'll be _happy_ to hear that you want to get pregnant."

"Tell Jackson," Lydia hisses, eyes _glowing_, "and I will _end you_."

Whoa. Lydia's - Lydia's become even _more_ dominant since she was Turned. Stiles pities Jackson, for a second; if the poor bastard ever _does_ get back together with her, she'll have a strap-on waiting for him. A really, really huge strap-on. With pearls on it.

And Stiles… does not need that image.

At _all_.

"I. Will. End. You," Lydia repeats, slowly, word-for-word. "Did you or did you not get that?"

"Look," Stiles sighs. "That _I, Robot_ thing you have going on with your eyes? Doesn't scare me. Not after _Derek_, okay? Not after_Peter Hale_."

Lydia considers him. Narrowly. "I could still hurt you."

"No, you could not," snarls another voice, and Lydia - doesn't _jump_, exactly, but there's an abortive twitch to her shoulders that means she sure as hell _wants_ to.

"Whoops," she smirks, like she isn't busy hyperventilating. Stiles isn't a werewolf, but even _he_ can hear her heart beating from across the room. "Daddy doesn't like it when I threaten Mommy."

Wha -

_Mo_ -

Stiles isn't actually going to be able to finish his sentences. He can't finish his _thoughts_.

"Get out," rumbles Derek, all low and _feral_, and Lydia - gets out.

Damn it. That leaves the nachos and the tub of sour cream out on the counter, for Stiles to tidy up. Again. There's powdery nacho-stuff everywhere. Lydia - or, well, Werelydia - is a messy eater. When she's with the pack, it's like she doesn't care about how she looks, or how she acts; Little Miss Prom Queen is nowhere to be found. Which is great, insofar as self-expression and self-confidence is concerned, but _less_ great insofar as… as living with _other people_ is concerned.

"Gee, I dunno, big guy, but maybe you could let her _clean up_ before exiling her to the lands of darkness and damnation?"

"She was threatening you."

"She was _kidding around_. You know that."

"It was unacceptable."

"Un - who are you, Dick Cheney? You don't get to tell me what _I_ oughta find 'acceptable', got it? Also, what're you doing here? Where's Jar?"

"He's with Scott."

"Scott's back, huh?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

They stare at each other.

They're - they're alone. In the kitchen. And Stiles has just had a disturbing _and_ disturbingly justifiable conversation about werewolf boners.

Stiles can't, unfortunately, sink into the ground. He wishes he _could_.

"So…" Stiles reaches behind himself to turn off the stove, because the idea is to boil the bottles, not _melt_ them. "I'll just - go join Scott? Or," he says, when Derek _crowds_ him against the stove, "I could just. Stay here. Where you're pinning me. To a. Um."

Derek _inhales_. And gets a blissed-out look on his face.

Fuck. Jackson was _right_. Derek gets _high_. Derek gets high on _Stiles_.

Or on how Stiles _smells_. Cub-and-milk. Eau de Mate.

He's going to have to give Lydia flowers. Or a dead cat. Or whatever counts as an appreciation gift among werewolves. Because, her advice? Was _gold_. Stiles is totally going to follow it. Stiles is going to change shirts _one million times_. It'll be like those Broadway musicals, with a gazillion costume changes, and Stiles will skip on and off the stage like the world's least pigtailed Heidi.

Jesus. What is wrong with his _brain_?

Possibly he's freaking out. Possibly he's _panicking_, because Derek isn't just crowding him, anymore; Derek is _touching him_.

Derek is touching his _waist_, pushing Stiles inexorably backward, until his hip nudges the platform right _next_ to the stove, and it's a damn good thing he turned it _off_, because -

Because Derek's -

Derek's mouthing his _neck_.

Again.

This is seriously becoming a _theme_. A bizarre, upsetting theme.

Stiles is… Stiles is upset. He's -

He's _gasping_, and he's _upset_ -

He's very, _very_ upset -

Derek _growls_, and presses _closer_, and Stiles can feel Derek's butter-soft leather jacket under his palms (when did they even come up to rest on Derek's shoulders?) and Derek's sandpaper-rough stubble against his _throat_, and it's -

It's so, _so_ upsetting -

It's _wet_ -

Oh, god, that's Derek's _tongue_ -

Stiles _shudders_, and there's this sound that comes out of him that he doesn't know how to _classify_, except that it makes Derek's grip on his waist tighten until Stiles can feel himself _bruise_ -

This - this isn't just scent-marking, this is -

Stiles has to _stop_ it -

He has to -

He has to get his hard-on to go back _down_, damn it -

Derek's thumb sweeps up, _under_ Stiles's T-shirt, and the first callused brush of it against Stiles's skin makes him _moan_ -

Wait, no, he didn't mean to - didn't -

"Stop!" Stiles _shoves_ him away, and Derek's eyes gleam _red_, for a moment, before he controls himself. His fingers have real goddamn claws on them - like he can snatch Stiles up with them, and - and carry him away, or something. _Shit_.

"It's just - it's just my scent," babbles Stiles, as Derek _smolders_ at him. "It's - you don't mean to, it's some kind of involuntary Wolverine thing, like from the X-Men, I _get_ that, and you don't - you need to get a _mate_, you need to - "

"Stiles." Derek's moving back _in_. This time, his hand cups the back of Stiles's head and yanks it _back_, claws catching on Stiles's hair, until Stiles can feel the strain in his tendons and his throat is utterly, dangerously bare. With Derek's fangs _this_ close to it.

Stiles just _hangs_ there, suspended in Derek's grasp, breath sawing in and out of him and heart _hammering_ like a drill in a goddamn construction site.

"It _is_ your scent." And Derek's leaning close, mouthing at his throat, again. "It's _your_ scent."

Okay. That's - okay, that's -

Holy _shit_, it's -

It's _not_ okay -

"You don't mean it," Stiles says, eyes squeezed shut, because he can't _look_ at Derek's face, right now, doesn't know what he wants to _see_ on it. "You don't - "

"Who are you," Derek asks, against his skin, "Dick Cheney?"

That -

"You don't get to tell _me_," Derek says, the _bastard_, "what I ought to - "

"Fine." Stiles is _not_ laughing. Hysterically. Or giggling. He's _not_. He might be _wheezing_, but - "_Fine_. You… you _win_, you - "

"Yes," says Derek, patient and implacable. "I win."

And then, Derek's _kissing_ him. He's -

He's biting Stiles's _mouth_, but he's doing it _gently_, like a starving man at a feast that's still trying to be _polite_ -

It makes Stiles _strain_ upward, against the pull of Derek's hand, which slips down and around his nape, and, fuck, those are his claws, his actual freaking _claws_ brushing the sides of Stiles's _neck_ -

Stiles _quivers_, mind blown, lips raw because Derek keeps turning aside and rubbing his stubble against them, rubbing his _face_against Stiles, like he's trying to mark him, trying to leave his scent all _over_ him, and Stiles -

Stiles flashes on this image of the two of them together, of Stiles naked and spread out and Derek looming _over_ him, huge and broad-shouldered in a dark-lit room, holding him down and moving _on_ him, _against_ him, heavy and radiating heat, rutting in slow, hard circles that make Stiles sweat, that make Stiles _keen_ -

Because Derek would be _marking_ him, and Derek would take his _time_ -

Stiles _jerks_, eyes flying open, and Derek's licking back into his mouth, _lapping_ at him and _into_ him in a way that makes him_quake_ -

"I - " Stiles isn't ready for all that, isn't - "D-Derek, _please_ - "

Derek _pauses_.

For a second, Stiles thinks it's an impending-storm pause, an I'm-going-to-fuck-you-senseless-_anyway_ pause, but then Derek draws _back_, panting, and his eyes are -

His eyes aren't human, at _all_.

"You're frightened," says Derek, and Stiles wants to nod frantically, wants to get the hell out of here and jack off like any other sixteen-year-old with a stupid dick, but what he ends up saying is -

"No," and, Jesus, he's _scoffing_. Why is he scoffing? "Hell, no. I just - "

"Stiles. I can smell it."

"Right." Stiles nods. "_Right_, so we can - maybe, um, take this slow? Not that I'm _scared_, why would I be scared? This is perfectly normal, just a teenager necking with an overgrown werewolf that could literally tear a house down with his _claws_, nothing scary about _that_, is there? Or, you know, the fact that there's a _baby_ and suddenly, according to Lydia, I'm some sort of teen _mom_ - I'm _Bristol Palin_ - "

Derek drops his head onto Stiles's shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"You - " Derek's _sorry_. Derek's - oh, crap, Derek's… _Derek_. Derek's the guy who got cradle-snatched by _Kate Argent_ when he was, like, _fifteen_. Derek thinks -

"No," says Stiles, quickly. "_No_. You - you've got nothing to be sorry about."

Derek snorts. Or maybe grunts. Grunt-snorts?

"You've gotta believe me. We'll… we'll do this properly, all right?"

"Properly," Derek echoes, like he doesn't know the _word_.

Maybe he _doesn't_. "Yeah. You know. Dates? The occasional movie night? _Dinner?_ That doesn't involve fresh rabbits?"

"That's… dating."

"Yeah, Einstein, that's _dating_. That's how people _do_ this stuff. They talk. Get to know each other. And if there's a baby involved - which, in this case, there _is_ - they bond _over_ said baby. And I realize that you want something a hell of a lot _more_ than that - not just _dating_, but a - a pack-partner or life-partner, or something - "

"A mate."

"That. That's what you - and that's _fine_, it's just - you don't _get_ there without touching the other bases, _first_." Great. Why'd he bring up 'bases'? Let alone, uh, _touching_ them?

"Bases," says Derek, sounding _amused_, like he's caught on to Stiles's totally-not-Freudian slip.

Stiles sticks out his tongue - even though Derek can't see it, from this angle. "_Bases_. Now, uh, maybe I should go check on Jar? Because he's with Scott, and - as much as I hate to say this - Scott might seriously lower Jar's IQ. For _life_. If we leave him alone with Scott long enough, the only word Jar will _ever_ learn is 'Allison'."

Derek steps back. His hands linger on Stiles, and Stiles - tries to ignore the fact that he's turned on _and_ a little shaky, physically_and_ emotionally. He's going to process all of this later, when he's alone, or when he's with Jar, because Jar's like a simplifying factor, or a - a third atom in a three-atom two-electron bond, and, man, once semester starts, Stiles is going to _ace_ that Chem test. If he can concentrate long enough to finish it.

Stiles calms himself down. And smiles at Derek. Derek, who isn't wolfing out, anymore, and just seems… sad. Wistful?_Something_.

He really _shouldn't_ have that look on his face - whatever that look _is_ - so Stiles gathers his courage and rises up on his toes, and kisses Derek, once, on the nose.

On the _nose_, and Derek's eyes _widen_ -

And Stiles steps back, snickering. "Man, you're - I wish I could take a _picture_. You look like you've been - "

"Stiles," Derek says, voice rolling like the quietest _thunder_, and Stiles -

Stiles probably _shouldn't_ mess around with an Alpha.

Probably.

"Um. I didn't - "

But Derek just _grabs_ him, or - or _pounces_, and then he's kissing Stiles, _hard_, before letting him go.

Stiles _sways_. On his feet. And hangs on to the counter.

"Okay," he says. "Okay, I - I get what you're saying, or what you're _not_ saying, and, and I'm going to go. Yeah? That good with you?"

Derek's eyes _glint_. But he doesn't say 'no,' or, 'get back here so I can maul you some more,' so Stiles sidles along the kitchen platform, backs out of the door, and escapes.

And hopes - in vain - that Scott won't be able to take one whiff of him and tell, down to the very last _detail_, exactly what happened, here.

Hell, even if Stiles didn't, _before_, he sure smells like werewolf boner, _now_.


	4. Chapter 4

**REASONABLE TO ASSUME**

**- PART IV -**

* * *

><p>So, it's getting to be a thing. Maybe it already <em>is<em> a thing, and Stiles's brain is just too busy stumbling over itself to catch _up_, but - the thing. Is a scenting thing. An almost-dating thing. A co-parenting-blossoming-into-an-only-marginally-creepy-romance thing. If Jarvis were twins, this would totally be _The Parent Trap_. A gay, supernatural, occasionally bloody _Parent Trap_. With wolves.

As it is, Stiles just… comes over every day and hangs out, and - okay, it's not _hanging out_, anymore. It's something else. Something that makes being at _home_, where he lives with his _Dad_, feel like a day-trip to pick up T-shirts and underwear. (And stain remover, because the the stuff Dad uses for his uniforms works _wonders_ on poop stains. Even werepoop stains. Not that werepoop's any _different_, Stiles doesn't think, but you never know. At least Jar isn't eating solids, yet.)

Anyway. The thing. Probably isn't healthy. No, scratch that; it _definitely_ isn't healthy. Not just because of the whole age difference aspect, or the werewolf aspect, or the Derek's-only-other-romantic-experience-was-with-a-psychotic-mass-murderer aspect. What's _really_ messed up, far as Stiles can tell, is how it's changing what he feels about _family_.

Family's always been important to him. Even before Mom died, of course, but _after_ she died, it was _everything_. It was just him and Dad, knit tighter than ever, like scar-tissue over a bullet wound.

But now, even though he misses his Dad and wants him to come back, he's _also_ worried about what'll happen when Dad _does_come back. Like, it won't be a problem during the _day_, or whenever his Dad's on night-shift, but Stiles won't be able to go over to Derek's anytime he wants, won't be able to _hold_ Jarvis anytime he wants, won't be able to skip out on family dinners at home just because, suddenly, Dad _isn't_ his only family.

Dad… isn't his only family.

That's - that's _huge_. It's weird, and terrifying, and _huge_, but it's also _right_, when he's watching Jar sleep while Scott and Jackson try to beat the shit out of each other _quietly_, and Derek's sort of… lurking at his shoulder, like he always does, but _close_, close and _warm_, and he's watching Jar, too.

It's -

It's too much to give up on. Too _much_, and he isn't sure when the hell this happened, or _how_, but his family's a lot bigger, now.

His family - his family is _pack_.

* * *

><p>It's Drugstore Day. That's what Lydia calls it, because it's the day they run out of diapers or baby oil or something else, and someone's gotta go down to the drugstore. It happens every so often; usually once in three to four days. And <em>usually<em>, it's one of the others that goes shopping, but _this_ time, it's Stiles.

Mostly because he has to get out of the house. Seriously. Being indoors for that long is driving him _nuts_. Also, Derek's all up in his space all the time, popping up around corners like a bizarrely sexy Jack in the Box, pressing him against walls and random surfaces and just - smelling him. A lot. It's awkward, and embarrassing, not least because Scott gets this _understanding_ look on his face. (Scott should _never_ have that look on his face. It's downright unnatural; the universe should _always_ be incomprehensible to him.) The fact that Stiles keeps getting _hard_ whenever Derek sniffs him is _also_ freaky, because everyone can_smell_ it on him, and even though nobody else seems to have a problem with it - weirdass werewolves and their total lack of boundaries - Stiles _isn't_ okay with it, all right? He just - he _isn't_.

He's gone from being _persona non grata_ at high school to being Derek's personal Britney Spears, or something, and he can't - he can't _cope_. To go from being one of the most undesirable people in Beacon Hills to one of the most desirable, almost _overnight_, is a scenario so unlikely that belongs in a comic book, and a part of Stiles still can't square it with himself, can't make it _real_. It's like, tomorrow he'll wake up and no one will know who he is, again, except for Scott, who doesn't know _anything_, and Dad, who's all he's got. Derek will still be a scary ex-con who's too hot to _just_ be scary, and Jackson will still be a complete tool, and Danny will never say hi to him from across the cafeteria, and Lydia will still hold amoeba and some species of _plankton_ in higher regard than she'll ever hold _him_.

Instead, Derek - he of the _Playgirl_ physique - wants Stiles to be his _mate_, the co-leader of his _pack_, and it's so out of this world that Stiles actually catches himself wondering if he's hallucinating, sometimes. Dreaming it all up. This whole Immortal Beloved business keeps making him want to look in the mirror and check if he hasn't suddenly turned into that droopy-eyed girl from_Twilight_.

The only thing that _does_ make it real, strangely enough, is Jar - because no _way_ would Stiles ever hallucinate about _poop_. Werepoop. Or spending ages scrubbing it off his own _shirts_.

So he volunteers for Drugstore Day, and gets the hell out of the house, avoiding Derek's sullen, mopey eyes. Jesus. It's like Derek's _pining_ after him, which is ridiculous, since they see each other _every day_. Every hour, even. If this keeps up, Stiles is going to have to consult one of those teen-magazine agony aunts Lydia keeps quoting over breakfast. Maybe one of them will even answer his questions. 'Clingy wereboyfriend? Here's how you deal!'

How _Stiles_ deals is by escaping in search of diapers. Perfectly valid excu - reason. Perfectly valid _reason_ for leaving the house.

Stiles tries to draw it out, a bit, wandering up and down the aisles, picking cans up and putting them down, reading the labels on the baby-food. (Which Jar isn't old enough for, _yet_, but he soon will be. Might as well do some research.)

He's basically just standing there, with a can of pulpy mango in his hand, when he hears someone say:

"Well, well. Don't _you_ smell pretty."

Stiles whips around. And drops the can, because, damn it, he has a sixth _sense_ for this sort of stuff, by now. And that tiny detail about 'smell'? Definitely werewolf mojo.

"There's no need to be afraid."

The hell there isn't. This guy's like _Peter Hale_, or he's giving off the same sort of vibe, and for all that he looks like a normal-seeming, broad-shouldered, lumberjack type in a Red Sox sweatshirt, there's this keen, feral _intelligence_ in his eyes that is fucking _terrifying_. If you know what to look for. Which Stiles does. From _experience_.

"Someone's been very thorough in marking you." He tilts his head. "Possessive, is he?"

What. _What_ - "It's good manners to introduce yourself," Stiles says, because _damn_ if he's going to pretend he has no clue what's going _on_, "before you go asking people about their love lives." Not that Stiles _has_ the sort of love life this dude's implying, mostly because he's cock-blocking _himself_ for reasons of sanity and world peace, but - maybe that's _why_ Derek's been scenting him so much. To make _up_ for it.

"Of course. How remiss of me." The man offers his hand. "Max. Max Werner."

Stiles _doesn't_ shake that hand. Eventually, it's lowered. "I bet you're a Maximilian, too."

"How could you tell?"

"Because you're dressed like a small-town hick, but you talk like an Oxford professor? That might've given it away."

"Hm. And you are?"

Lie, _lie_ - no, wait, lies won't _work_ - this guy will _smell_ them - "Stiles. As in, Stilinski. I live down the road."

"If by 'down the road,' you mean, 'all the way in the forest'. I can smell moss and sunlight on you. Clever, how you didn't technically _lie_, but, well. You'll have to do better than that."

"Listen, Mr. Twenty Questions - "

"Max."

"_Max_. What do you _want_ from me?"

Max shrugs. "Just curious, that's all. You smell like a cub, but you seem rather young to have had one, so - "

"Don't judge," says Stiles, his mouth on auto-pilot, because, _fuck_. This is about _Jarvis_. Max is either from Jar's pack, or from one of their rival packs, but whoever he is, he doesn't mean Jar well. Stiles can _feel_ it. "Age is just a number."

"So they say. And so your… mate, whoever he is, seems to believe."

"Damn straight. Or, heh, _not_."

"You're a spunky little thing, aren't you? Not intimidated at all?"

Stiles hasn't, for one _second_, looked away from Max's eyes. He knows his were-lore; to look away is to submit. "No."

"You're either a fool, or a very, very desirable mate."

"It's possible to be both."

"Is it? Yes. Yes, I suppose it is. _Are_ you a fool?"

"Sometimes. Are you a jackass?"

"Always. Or so I'm told. At any rate, this cub - "

"His name's Jar," Stiles snaps. "For _Jarvis_. I named him. He's ours. He's _ours_, you hear that?"

"Really? He didn't get dropped off by a kindly stork? Burst out of a very felicitous cabbage?"

"He. Is. _Ours._" There. That's the _truth_. No lie in it. Not a hint of one, and Max's eyes _narrow_.

"So I see," he murmurs. "Certainly, you do smell as you _should_, all cub-scent and mate-scent, which would mean that the cub _is_yours, but - I'm looking for a child, you see."

"Ever thought about _having_ one?"

"Are you offering?"

_What?_

"Ah. It appears that I've alarmed you."

_Alarmed_ - "Um, you just as much _said_ that you smelled my mate on me." He doesn't stumble over 'mate', when he says it, because he can't _afford_ to. "Aren't you, like, supposed to back off? As a werewolf courtesy, or something?"

"If you believe," Max says, slowly, "that having been claimed as a mate makes one less alluring, not _more_, then you are sorely mistaken."

Stiles's heart is _pounding_. What the ever-loving _fuck_? "And you're sorely out of _chances_, pal. Either tell me what the hell it is you're after, or I go walkin'."

"It's a cub," says Max, "born of my pack, and sadly… misplaced. I'm searching for it."

"Huh." Stiles raises an eyebrow. "And why should I care? If you can't even keep a _cub_ in line, then you can't be much of an Alpha."

Max _freezes_. "You know that I'm an Alpha."

"Yeah, I know that you're an Alpha. Jackass," he adds, after a moment, because it feels right.

"You're human. You shouldn't be able to smell my rank."

"I have a _brain_. I should be able to work it _out_."

"How?"

"Just - " Stiles gestures at him. "Everything. The way you stand. The fact that you dared to come up to me, the member of another pack, and _demand_ answers, like you're some sort of feudal warlord. Well, I'm _sorry_, Genghis Khan, but I don't submit to the likes of _you_."

Max _hisses_. "Prettier and prettier."

"Goner and goner. I'm _gone_, man. You keep talking like that, and I'm - "

"I apologize. I underestimated you."

Apo - _apologize_? "You need to speak to - " _Derek_, he doesn't say, because it doesn't seem _right_ to dirty Derek's name by saying it in front of this jerk. " - my mate," he says, _determinedly_ not stuttering over the word. "Dude could learn a thing or two about apologizing."

"He doesn't seem to be keeping you happy."

"I'm plenty happy, all right? I'm brimming with champagne-colored _joy_. Just not when creeps like _you_ are around, you get that?"

"I do, indeed. So, if this cub _is_ yours," Max says, changing the subject with disorienting speed, "then I'm sure you don't mind my paying a visit."

Stiles's mind judders to a halt. "What?"

"After all, it's custom. A… what did you call it? _Courtesy_. For an Alpha on another Alpha's territory to announce his presence. Personally."

"You've announced it to _me_. In fact, you've announced it with a freaking _loudspeaker_ - "

"You, child, are not the Alpha. A clever boy, and the _mate_ of the Alpha, perhaps, but - "

"What, we meet in a drugstore aisle and suddenly you're all, 'take me to your leader'? Screw that."

"Then you _do_ have something to hide."

Stiles raises his chin. _Doesn't_ look away. And thinks - thinks _frantically_ - about how this Alpha could summon his pack, easy as that, and he's an older Alpha, with a presumably bigger following. If it came to an all-out battle, Derek's amateur rock band - Derek and the Misfits - wouldn't stand a _chance_. Jackson hasn't even learned how to _hunt_, properly, yet. "We don't. You are cordially invited to the Hale residence."

"Ah, the Hales," says Max, like he doesn't fucking _know_ what the pack of Beacon Hills is called. Stiles has read up on this stuff (and grilled Derek about it); he knows that each pack is painfully aware of every other pack's location and territory. It's part of the _deal_, being a werewolf and giving a shit about things like that, about where one pack's hunting-ground ends and another pack's begins. "Tragedy, what happened to them."

"Not all of them."

"The Alpha is a Hale, I take it?"

"You don't." A middle-aged lady edges past them, giving them the odd squint of hey-look-two-guys-standing-awfully-close, but they ignore her. "You won't be taking _anything_, buddy."

Max… relaxes. "Of course not. If it truly is your cub, then I cannot remove it from your pack by any means; I would be breaking the Law, and every other pack in the country would be after me."

"Life's so _difficult_ for a professional jackass."

Max _laughs_. "Ha. Yes." His eyes are startled _and_ pleased, like a man that set out seeking an answer, but found something _better_. "I'll see you later, Spitfire."

"My _name_ is _Stiles_ - "

But the guy only turns and starts walking, and when Stiles calls after him, he doesn't even glance back.

"Hey, don't you need an address?"

"I've caught the scent," Max waves his hand, not turning around. "I'll get there."

Get - _get_ there.

When? Like, _now_?

"Shit," mutters Stiles, and races out of the shop. Max has just stepped out, so he's probably still around, watching Stiles fumble stupidly with his car-keys before jamming them into his Jeep and taking _off_. If Max is planning on heading over to the Hale house immediately, then Stiles has gotta beat him there.

Fucking _hell_. Forget diapers; he's gonna have to send Scott out for _bandages_.

When Derek hears about this -

Stiles grits his teeth.

Derek _will_ hear about this.

* * *

><p>"Where's Jar?" he says, banging open the door. He's panting, and he's <em>sweating<em>, like he's here to tell everyone that the sky is falling down, which, hey, it _is_. Shit. Shit, fuck and _damn_ - _"Where is he?"_

Lydia, Scott and Jackson are frozen on the couch, eyes glowing. It's like being in a horror movie, surrounded by wild, phosphorus-eyed dogs.

"What happened? Did he - "

But Stiles barely makes it halfway across the room before Derek materializes out of nowhere and _pins_ him to the wall.

"Who." Derek's eyes are glowing, _too_.

"Is Jar - "

"_Who_."

"Shut the hell _up_, man, where's _Jar_ - "

"He's in the nursery," says Scott, from behind them, sounding growlier than usual. "What happened?"

"I can smell it on you," Derek grinds out, glowering like a homicidal _maniac_. "The scent of another Alpha. _Who_."

"So he hasn't come by, then."

"Someone's here for Jar," Lydia hazards. "Right?" Her face is pale. Jackson's fangs are actually _out_ -

"Right. Which is _why_," Stiles plucks Derek's hands _off_ of him, which isn't easy, given, you know, _claws_, "I need to see Jar. _Now_."

Derek lets him go. Somehow. He looks like he wants to snap Stiles up in his jaws and drag him to some distant cliff and feast on his _bones_, which isn't exactly conducive to Stiles's overall sanity, at the moment, but Stiles just pushes past him and into the nursery.

The nursery wasn't always a nursery - not until Jar arrived, anyhow. But these days, it's full of baby stuff, a cot and a mobile and a changing table, and Stiles can _hear_ Jar, making soft, questioning noises, and his heart _seizes_ like it's been _shot_.

"Fuck," says Stiles, forgetting his own rule about not swearing in front of the baby, and his knees go _weak_. He hangs onto the edge of Jar's cot. Stares down at him. "_Fuck_. Just - "

"Stay out," Derek barks, apropos of _nothing_, and Stiles hears footsteps shuffle back out - Scott and Lydia and Jackson, probably.

Stiles is literally, physically _sick_. He wants to pick Jar up and curl over him. Disappear with him. _Something_ -

"Pick him up," Derek says, echoing what Stiles is _thinking_, and his voice is - it shouldn't be possible for it to be comforting _and_batshit crazy, but somehow, it _is_. "Touch him. He's still here. He's real."

Real. Jar is -

Jar, who makes everything _else_ real -

Stiles picks him up. Just - _holds_ him, and feels a strange, tightening _twist_ in himself, like a wire in his blood.

Derek rumbles quietly.

"I can't give him up," says Stiles, and knows that it's stupid, impractical, _stupid_ - but Jar's gazing up at him, all wide, leaf-green eyes and almost-smile, and he's so _soft_, and he fills Stiles's arms like nothing and no one else ever has, or _will_. Stiles knows that, now, suddenly and _absolutely_, and it's the sort of truth he hadn't thought he was old enough to recognize, the truth he still sees, sometimes, in his own father's eyes.

"Then don't," Derek says, which makes no sense at all, until Derek comes up behind Stiles and holds him, _too_. "We won't give him up."

Jar _gurgles_. And wriggles like he might, possibly, be peeing in his diapers. He's got that scrunchy-nosed, confused, why-am-I-suddenly-wet-down-there expression.

"We might have to," says Stiles, softly. "The Alpha, he - he's from Jar's pack."

Derek goes _still_.

"I know the Law. We can't keep another pack's cub. Not without their consent."

"You don't think he'll consent."

"I think he wants to _hurt_ Jar."

Derek actually lets _go_ of Stiles, for a second, but Stiles knows that it's probably because he's trying to calm down and get his claws to go back _in_. Also, Derek hasn't growled in front of Jar. Ever since - ever since that first day.

"I. I don't know how, but I just _knew_ it. He was - he felt like Peter."

Derek _breathes_. Like he's trying not to tear down the walls.

"But he wasn't Jar's Dad. Not just - not just because of the hurting thing, but - he could smell a cub on me, but he wasn't sure whose it was. That's why he kept asking me all those questions, about who I was, and where Jar came from, and whether I - anyway. He - he hasn't scented Jar, before."

"Which means," Derek says, sounding exaggeratedly, dangerously sane, "that the mother ran away from the pack before giving birth."

"Why would she do that?"

"If the birth was somehow forbidden. If she mated with someone forbidden to _have_ it."

"Then, what? That gives the Alpha the right to - " Stiles can't bring himself to _say_ it " - abort the baby? Just like that?"

"An Alpha," says Derek, "may do anything with his pack. It is the Law."

"_Screw_ the Law - "

"We won't hand Jar over."

Stiles _gasps_ -

"We won't."

"Don't - don't promise me something like that. Something can't even be _done_ - "

"Stiles - "

"This guy's a big shot, all right? It was - it was _obvious_, and he was wearing a freaking Red Sox sweatshirt, which means he's come all the way from _Boston_. From across the goddamn _country_. He isn't going to let this go easily."

"We won't, either."

"We'll _have_ to." Stiles puts Jar down in his cot, because he has to turn around and look into Derek's eyes. "_Derek_. Listen to me. Our pack is… our pack is new. This Alpha's pack - his name is Max, by the way, Max Werner - is _not_. They could kick our asses._Easily_. They could kill us all and take Jar by _force_."

"The Werners," says Derek, in the exact same tone Max had said, 'the Hales'. "They're a pack of forty strong."

"Fo - _forty_? How is that even - do they breed like _rabbits_?"

"They've just been around a long time. Since the revolution. They're the third-largest pack in the United States."

"Crap."

"And they're… traditionalists."

"Tra - what, with the baby-killing? That's _traditional_?"

"Traditionally, as per the Law, Werner's doing a better job of running his pack than I am, running mine. I… let my Betas mate as they please, with whomever they please. I place no restrictions on offspring."

"Neither do they. I mean, otherwise, how'd they get to be _forty_?"

"Without restrictions, they'd be in the hundreds."

Stiles _boggles_.

"Think about it. How many generations have passed since the revolution? A normal family would number in the hundreds - extended cousins, nephews, nieces, children by marriages. It's because only the Alpha - and those the Alpha permits - are allowed to breed that the Werners are even as small a pack as they are."

"_Small?_ That's - we _can't_ fight them!"

"No," says Derek. "We can't."

Stiles feels his face _crumple_.

"Stiles." And Derek's arms are back around him. Tight, almost tighter than can be _borne_, but Stiles can't bear this, _anyway_ -

"You're saying we have to - to that murdering _bastard_ - I won't. I _can't_ - "

"We won't."

"You - " Stiles laughs, but it comes out cracked, jagged, like something that _cuts_. "You don't make any sense."

"You said he didn't know for sure. He hasn't smelled Jar, before. He can't _prove_ the baby belongs to his pack, not unless he finds the mother and gets her to testify, and that - "

"That means he can't take Jar away," says Stiles, dumbly, _wonderingly_. "As per the Law - he _can't_. Unless we give him reason to believe Jar isn't ours, he - " Stiles _shakes_. He's so relieved, he can barely hold himself _up_, but Derek's doing it for him, so that's okay. "He - he can't - "

"He can't," Derek repeats, calmly, and rests his chin on Stiles's head. That height difference usually pisses Stiles _off_, because it reminds him of how inadequate he is, but right now, Stiles just presses his face against Derek's neck and closes his eyes.

"We've gotta make him believe we've always had Jar."

"We will."

"You can't lose your temper."

Derek doesn't answer.

"You _can't_. Derek, this dude's so Alpha he doesn't even _have_ to wolf out to completely fucking intimidate a person - "

"You weren't intimidated," Derek reminds him.

"Yeah, but I'm _insane_. Must be the company."

"Your father _would_ call me a bad influence."

Stiles _snorts_. "You - stop avoiding the topic by pretending that you have a sense of humor. You don't, by the way."

"I do."

"You _don't_. Be honest. You're thinking of ripping Werner's intestines out of his body, aren't you?"

Derek… doesn't say anything.

"He's the _Alpha_. Of a forty-member _pack_. And unless we want civil blood making civil hands unclean, we've gotta keep our shit together, all right? We're not going to be very convincing as Jar's real family if we're wigging out like kidnappers with something to hide."

"Jar's true pack wouldn't need to be defensive," Derek agrees, "because Jar would be theirs. By the Law."

"Jar _is_ ours. _By the Law_."

"As long as Werner doesn't know better."

"He won't. Because _you_," Stiles pulls back and jabs Derek in the chest, "will keep your cool. We all will. Lydia won't be a bitch._Jackson_ won't be a bitch. Scott won't be an idiot - "

"Don't ask for the impossible."

"Yeah, well," says Stiles, and rests his head on Derek's shoulder. "You might have a point."

"Mm."

A couple minutes pass. "Are you zoning out, again?"

"Mm."

Stiles looks down at Jar. And reaches out a hand, into the cot, that Jar immediately grabs onto.

"Won't let you go, kiddo," Stiles whispers, and curls his fingers around that little fist. "Won't let you go."


	5. Chapter 5

**REASONABLE TO ASSUME**

**- Part V -**

* * *

><p>Well, shit. It's countdown to Doomsday, now. Or Loomsday, because, uh, looming. That's what werewolves <em>do<em>. And what Max Werner does, apparently. To perfection.

Because Max isn't showing up. The dude's just _lurking_, or maybe enjoying extra-rare steak at the local diner, or something. Everyone's waiting for him, but Max can't even be bothered sending a postcard. It's stretching the suspense to breaking-point, magnifying his importance - which, heh, is probably what the bastard _wants_.

It's been two days since Stiles met him, and there hasn't been any sign of Max, at all.

A pall falls over the Hale house. No one wants to leave it, not for a second, in case Max drops by and steals Jarvis away. The whole place feels like the last bunker on the front line of a war that absolutely has to be won; nobody wants to abandon it, not at any cost. Scott and Jackson are technically supposed to go home, every night, but have come up with a crazy story about an impromptu lacrosse camp that Danny (without knowing the true reason and, he says, not _wanting_ to know - he thinks Scott and Jackson might be dating) has offered to vouch for. Lydia drops in whenever she can, and stays as long as she possibly can; her parents think she's out partying it up.

Instead of partying, they're all just huddled in the living room, watching _Gilligan's Island_ reruns as the late-night programming kicks in.

"Maybe he's forgotten?" Scott asks, hopefully.

Lydia snorts. "Sure he has, dumbass. After coming all the way from _Boston_ and stalking _Stiles_, I'm sure he's just forgotten his resolution to kill us all and _eat our heads_."

"He never said he wanted to do that," Scott protests.

"Yeah, but when we don't hand Jar over? Which we won't, obviously. He _will_ eat our heads."

Scott's eyes go wide.

"Don't frighten the puppy," says Stiles, distractedly, trying to convince himself that Derek's keeping watch on Jar, and he can afford to spend some time with the rest of the pack. "Max is a werewolf, not a preying mantis. There won't be any head-eating, all right?"

"Yeah, but there'll be everything-else-eating." Lydia scowls. "Why's Werner keeping quiet?"

"He's trying to take us by surprise," Jackson mutters. "It's psychological warfare. It's the Tet Offensive."

"Of _course_ you're a military fanboy," Lydia sneers, and Jackson flushes. "Closet nerd."

"Closet _slob_."

"Now, now, kids." Stiles sighs. "Jackson's right. Max is the sort that enjoys playing with his food."

"So he _is_ going to eat us?" Scott puts in.

"Damn," says Jackson. "Maybe I should draw up a menu."

Scott looks _ill_.

"A menu's a good idea, actually." Lydia wraps her arms around her knees. "What does he need, a written invitation?"

"If this keeps on," Stiles drops his head back against the couch, "I'm just going to run outside and strip naked and paint myself in goat's blood." When everyone stares at him, Stiles huffs. "Don't werewolves _like_ goat's blood?"

There's a silence. A very, very long silence.

Eventually, Jackson says, "I'm hungry," fucking _uncomfortably_, like Stiles just inappropriately propositioned him, and stumbles toward the kitchen.

"What?" Stiles blinks after him. "What'd I say?"

"Uh, Stiles," says Lydia, slowly. "Maybe you shouldn't present yourself as a nice sauce-covered entrée when you're surrounded by a bunch of antsy teen werewolves in an enclosed space? Just an idea."

"Oh, come on. It's not like any of you would eat me."

"Why's everyone talking about eating?" Scott yelps.

"That," says Lydia, "is because there're only two things that help relieve stress - sex and food - and I sure as hell am not sleeping with any of _you_."

"So you're going to eat me," Stiles deadpans. "Will you rip me into tasty little shreds, first?"

Lydia shrugs. "No. Because then, Derek will rip _me_ into tasty little shreds."

Scott, having given up on making his pack-mates talk like sane people, joins in on the banter. "Don't forget Jar. When he grows up, he'll come back to avenge his mom."

"I'm _not_ his mom," Stiles says, because he isn't. Not really.

"No, you totally are," Lydia grins, an unholy light in her eyes. "Jar will definitely track me down to exact bloody vengeance."

"Hey! Jar's a peace-loving kid!"

"He's a werewolf, Stiles. He was practically _born_ to have vendettas. And if anyone hurts you? _You'll_ be his first vendetta. He'll come back to avenge you, like - like Anakin Skywalker."

"Does that make me Shmi?" Stiles asks, dryly. "Also, since when are you a _Star Wars_ geek?"

"I am _not_ a geek," Lydia says, flushing in the exact same way Jackson had flushed, when she'd accused him of being a nerd. When're they going to get over themselves and admit how right they are for each other?

"No, you totally are," he mimics her.

Lydia sputters.

"Wait, wait." Scott looks excited. "Does that mean Derek's Qui-Gon Jinn?"

Lydia kicks him in the shin.

Which, somehow, establishes an unspoken truce. They go back to watching _Gilligan's Island_. At some point, Jackson returns with what may or may not be a bloodstain on his T-shirt. Stiles does _not_ want to know what he snacked on. And whether or not there's a small skeleton picked clean in the backyard.

Stiles feels twitchy and strange, not being within 0.00001 millimeters of Jar, but Derek had as much told him to get a change of scenery before Derek hung him upside-down from the big tree outside their house. Personally, Stiles just thinks Derek wants Jar all to himself, probably to impart wolf-y, vengeance-y knowledge on a helpless newborn. Forget Qui-Gon Jinn, Derek's clearly a Sith Lord. He wants Jar to join him on the Dark Side. The Dark Side of we-will-kill-any-and-all-who-lay-a-hand-on-Stiles-Stilinski.

It's… kind of sweet, when Stiles thinks about it.

More creepy than sweet, though.

On the TV, Gilligan proves, once again, that being a diminutive, bumbling idiot doesn't mean he can't get the job done.

"Oh my god," says Stiles, after the _n_th episode, because there's only so much of this the human mind can take before, like,_breaking_. "I'm Gilligan, aren't I? _I'm Gilligan_."

There's another silence.

And then, Scott pipes up: "Does that mean Derek's the Skipper?"

This time, _both_ Lydia and Jackson aim kicks at him.

Stiles laughs - a bit hysterically - and throws an arm around Scott to reel him in. They won't dare hit Scott if he's under Stiles's direct protection, which, Stiles knows, is because of pack dynamics, but Stiles is _not_ thinking about that, because if he thinks about how he apparently outranks everyone (including Derek, because, let's face it, he _owns_ Derek), then his hysterical laughter will _never end_.

Derek wanders in past midnight, Jar slung over his shoulder like the world's tiniest and cutest sack of potatoes, and looks at everyone with that almost-fond, I-really-do-have-a-bleeding-heart-under-my-serial-killer-face expression. One day, Stiles is going to be able to see that expression without hearing _Behind Blue Eyes_ inside his own head.

But not today.

"Your turn," Derek says, and Stiles lets go of Scott and stands up, stretching his arms. Lydia and Jackson have fallen asleep, leaning on each other like puppies. Okay, so maybe they _do_ deserve Derek's… expression.

"Mmm, gimme," Stiles yawns, and reaches for Jar - but Derek's pulling him close, already, kissing his mouth, his throat, before handing Jar over.

Oh.

"Um," Stiles says, breath coming faster, and it's a good thing that Scott's very determinedly looking _away_, because Stiles isn't sure he wants anyone to see what he looks like, now. "Er."

"Take Jar inside," says Derek, quietly. "I'll keep watch."

Watch. Right.

Is it weird to be turned on while holding a baby? It's weird, isn't it? Weird and _wrong_. And Derek's _watching_ him, eyes dark and knowing and _patient_, and it's -

It's just not _fair_.

"Okie-dokie, Skipper!" says Stiles, cheerily, to Derek's blank, uncomprehending stare, and hitches Jar higher over his own shoulder on his way inside.

Heh. If _that_ isn't a bucket of cold water, Stiles doesn't know what is.

Quoting Gilligan. Excellent solution for when he needs some vengeance of his _own_.

* * *

><p>There're only five days until Dad gets back from his manly boot-camp of awesome. (Well, <em>Dad<em> thinks it's awesome; Stiles just thinks it's convenient. Very, very convenient.) Still, if Max does't turn up before then, it'll be next to impossible to keep this shit hidden from Dad, because Stiles is _absolutely_ going to skip home tutoring and summer lacrosse practice and every single family dinner in favor of hanging around Derek's house and wondering whether he can pick up some tricks from Macaulay Culkin in_Home Alone_. Not that Stiles _is_ 'home alone', not with Scott and Lydia and Jackson and _Derek_ prowling the place like Alcatraz's twitchiest guard-dogs hopped up on cocaine, but maybe snow shovels and random traps featuring roller-skates and toy cars might actually be enough to dissuade Max Werner.

Yeah, no.

(Hey, none of his thought processes are _his_ fault. He's kind of hopped up, too. On stress and late-night television.)

So, he's sort of going to pieces. Slightly. The thought of losing Jar's driving him nuts. There are times when Derek just pins him against walls until he stops hyperventilating (and starts _panting_, instead - yeah, great idea, Derek), but mostly, Stiles is handling it. He's doing fine. He's -

He's calling his dad.

For non-specific advice.

It's not like Stiles can outright _say_ that he's gay-married a werewolf and has become a pack mom and is in the midst of a desperate bid to protect his werebaby from a sociopathic baby-murdering Alpha, but maybe he can… ask for general guidance. About life. And shit.

Or maybe he just needs to hear his father's voice.

"'llo?" Dad sounds drowsy and scratchy, and, fuck, Stiles belatedly realizes that it's _one in the morning_. Nice. Now, his dad's going to think he's robbed a bank and is rotting in the Beacon Hills police station and needs bail, or something.

"Uh. Dad? Hi."

"Stiles?" Dad wakes up a little more. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Um. Sorry, I just. I couldn't sleep, and I - didn't notice it was so late. I'll hang up, we'll talk later, and - "

"_Stiles_."

Stiles closes his eyes. Swallows. And tries not to grip his phone so hard it _breaks_.

"Talk to me."

"I…" How can he explain that he's awake, at this time? Awake and freaking out, as opposed to awake and playing on the Xbox, or whatever? "I was. I had another dream. Nightmare. About mom." Okay, fuck, he's _sick_, sick and _insane_ to use his _mom_ as an excuse, even though the terrifying, smothering anxiety he feels nowadays is exactly what he'd felt before mom had died.

"It's been a long time," Dad says, "since you had those dreams."

Not that long. Stiles has mostly learned not to talk about them, or - or _think_ about them, but now, he has to, so, yeah. And now, he's stuck remembering those dreams, the blood-dark bruises on his mom's moonstone-pale body, and -

"Son. It's all right."

"No, it's _not_. It never was, and it - it still isn't. It'll _never be_ - "

Dad's silent. Breathing. They're tight breaths, though, rasping breaths, like he's been _hit_.

Fuck. He hadn't meant to _hurt_ Dad, he'd - "I'm sorry," Stiles blurts, around his own nausea. His stomach feels like it's filled with_rocks_.

"Don't be," Dad says, finally, gently. "You're right. It'll never be okay. But it has to be, for us, because she'd want it that way."

"How did you - " Stiles's throat clicks. "S-sorry - "

"Stiles. Ask what you have to," Dad says. "Please."

_Please._ Okay. He can do this. "How'd you… protect Mom, from what - what you couldn't protect her from?" Wait, that doesn't even make any _sense_. "I mean, when she. When they brought her in, after the, the crash, and. And she wouldn't wake up. Night after night. Week after week. And we - " thought she'd die at any moment " - couldn't do anything. We could just _wait_, and watch her, and _wait_, and we couldn't - we couldn't protect her from any of that, but I was just a kid, and you were. How did you." Cope? How did Dad fucking _cope_?

But Stiles's words have dried up, and the space inside his head is this blank, lurching thing, and the thought that he could lose Jar that way - waiting and waiting only to _lose_ him - he can't fucking _deal_ with that, doesn't even - doesn't even know what he'll_do_, if he'll just go apeshit and kill everybody, or -

- or himself.

If something happens to Jar, he - he doesn't know if he can go on living. It's stupid and exaggerated, given that he's only known Jar for a couple weeks, but it's -

It's what it is.

And Dad _hears_ what it is, in his _voice_, because Dad's been there.

Maybe Dad's _always_ been there. Maybe he's there, right now, and he'll always be there, in that white-hot, blinding emptiness inside himself, that knife-carved _hollow_ that can never, ever be filled.

"Stiles." The way Dad says his name is - Stiles doesn't know what it is, but it's something like it had been, that first day they'd spent without mom, that first day Stiles had wandered down to breakfast and realized that he'd never see Mom there, again. Never see her flipping pancakes. Never see her with that smudge of maple syrup at the corner of her mouth that Dad would desperately pretend he didn't want to kiss away, not in front of Stiles, anyway, although Stiles had caught them at it, once, and it had been sort of gross.

Stiles can't stay standing, anymore. His knees give out and he sinks onto the couch, still holding the phone, still trying not to throw up.

"I didn't," Dad says.

"Wh-what?"

"I didn't protect her. I couldn't. And I couldn't cope with it. Obviously." A wry note enters Dad's voice. "She'd kill me for the drinking, you know."

"That's what I keep telling you."

"Yeah. You - you sound like her. When you do."

Stiles's heart _twists_.

"Son…" Dad doesn't seem to know what to say, for a second, but then he continues. "No one can protect anybody. From death. Not for long. You'll manage it today, you'll manage it tomorrow, but one day - one day, you won't. And that's okay."

"Dad - "

"That's _natural_. You've got to do your best, and you _will_ do your best, because you have to, because when you love somebody, you can't do anything less. Sometimes, it's not enough. Sometimes, it is. You've just got to forgive yourself for that. _It's okay._"

Stiles - doesn't sob. Or punch something. Or feel relief. Or despair. Or - anything. He doesn't know _what_ to feel, so he just sits there, staring at his own fingers picking at the upholstery on the couch. A thread's coming loose, because Derek's too fucking cheap to buy first-hand.

"But there's always someone else. Someone else you need to do right by, someone else you need to protect, and you - you keep going. For them."

"Like you did," Stiles hears himself say, as if from a distance. "For me."

"For you." And Dad's so - so _certain_. So _sure_. Like Stiles was worth hanging around for, worth working for, worth pretending to be all right for. Their functional little family. (Pack.) But Max - Max wants to take that away from Stiles, that _reason_, and, yeah, Stiles would still stick around for Derek, but it wouldn't… it wouldn't be the same thing.

Would it?

Oh, fuck, it _would_. It would, because just the thought of losing Derek, _too_, makes Stiles grey out. Like, literally grey out - his vision blurs for a moment.

"If, um. If it had been me - "

"What?"

"If it had been m-me," Stiles stumbles over the question, "and not Mom. That had - and if it'd been just you and Mom - "

"Stiles, we've talked about this." Stern. Forbidding. Like Stiles is still a pathetic nine-year-old kid that thinks he can just swap his life out for his mom's. "She'd have wanted you to live."

"I know. I know, just - if it had been. Me. Would it have been the same, for you? Would you still - " _want to carry on?_

"Yes. Yes, it would've been. Stiles, what are you even - _how_ could you even - you know we love you, that your mom _still_ loves you - I don't love either of you _more_."

"Dad…"

"You know that. Tell me you know that."

"I do." Stiles _does_. That's the thing. He does, because he knows that if Max hurts Derek, it'll fuck Stiles up just as bad. He just - he wanted to pretend, for a while, that there was an out, that there was a better option, a worse option, _something_. And, yeah, that makes him a jackass, but mostly, it makes him _wretched_, that he's gonna lose, either way. That he's going to lose himself. That life is, apparently, about losing yourself, way before it's your turn to even _die_. "Believe me, I do."

"Good. That's… good."

They're silent, for some time, and Stiles reflects on the fact that his dad's advice is basically just to hang in there and keep loving the people he's loving, because there's nothing else he can do, in either case.

It's kind of a hopeless thought. But it's also reassuring. In a weird sort of way.

Because he doesn't have to stress himself out, anymore. He just has to love. He can do that. He's been _doing_ that. He's great at doing that. Brilliant, even. His hugs are the best. His tickles are the best; Jar should know. His silly faces are the best. His evasive maneuvers (when Lydia's having her period) are the best. His duty rosters are the best. His painstaking collection of wolfsbane antidotes is the best. His diaper-changing skills are the best. His milk bottles are the best. His microwaved meals are the best - no matter what Derek says. (With his eyebrows.)

He's just - he's _good_ at this stuff. This loving stuff. This, he can do. And, okay, it's _all_ he can do, but at least he knows he _can_ do it, now. That he can do it, that he has to do it, and that it's the only thing that matters, in the end.

So.

Screw Max Werner. This is the one thing he _can't_ take away.

"I'm - I'm okay, now," Stiles says, even though he's not, quite, but he will be. "Thanks."

"Promise you'll call me. If - if you're feeling low. Or even if you aren't," Dad adds, hurriedly. "Just. Call me. Anytime."

"Uh, I _have_ been calling you? Like, everyday?"

"More than everyday."

"_Twice_ a day? Um, you do know that I'm not actually a four-year-old, right?"

"You eat like one."

"Hey! My fascination with Twinkies is a universal and universally accepted part of the human condition."

"More like medical condition."

"Your sense of humor sucks, did anyone tell you that?"

"What are you saying, ye who has inherited the Stilinski humor?"

"First of all, you just said 'ye', which, like, disqualifies you from _everything_, okay, and secondly, it's not your sense of humor I've inherited. Admit it."

"Fine. But you can't deny, my jokes are the illest."

"Ill - " Stiles gapes. "Did you seriously just - _illest_? Where did you even pick that up?"

"There's a. Um. A rapper. On the force."

"A _rapper_?"

"I'm rooming with him."

"You're - "

"He's twenty-five years old," says Dad, defensively, like that even makes a difference or is remotely relevant. "He's a cop from Fresno. A deputy."

"You're rooming. With a twenty-five-year-old rapper. From Fresno."

"He, uh." Dad's sounding more and more embarrassed. "He's on YouTube?"

"You know what YouTube _is_?"

"He was showing me! With the kittens."

"The kittens."

"Look, you should just hang up."

"No, really. Tell me about the kittens. That your rapper buddy shows you dirty videos of."

"Dirty - how could you! They're kittens!"

"Uh-huh. So 'kitten' isn't code for 'scantily-clad extra in a Snoop Dogg music video'?"

"I have no idea what you just said."

"The hell you don't. Mr. Illest."

"Are you ragging on _me_ about my friends being a bad influence? You do know you're a teenager, right?"

"I'm just worried he's going to take you out and get you drunk and get you out of your pan - "

"Stop right there. Stop. Right. _There._"

" - ties. Whoops, I said it."

He can hear Dad grinding his _teeth_. "For the record, those were actual kittens. With fur."

"Oh, eww, he's into that?"

"_Stiles_!" And now, Dad's scandalized. This is _hilarious_. "They were _kittens_. Funny kittens. Laughing kittens."

"Kittens don't actually laugh."

"Kittens that _make_ people laugh."

Lolcats. His dad's rapping roommate is introducing him to lolcats. God help him; his dad's going to come back as the deranged lovechild of Justin Bieber and Kanye West. "Whatever. I'm not convinced. You sure they weren't videos of young, lissome girls in catsuits? These rapper types are notorious. For frequenting. Certain. Uh. Establishments."

"He's not like that."

"Ooh, defending the boyfriend?"

"Stiles. You're being ridiculous."

"Am I, now? Hmm. _Hmm._ Yeah, I guess I am. I mean, he's half your age, right? Not a boyfriend, then. More like a boy-_toy_."

"I'm hanging up."

"Nope, you're not," says Stiles, cheerily. "You're telling me more. About your rapping boy-toy roommate from Fresno. With the furry fetish."

Dad makes this choked noise that's half-frustration, half-amusement. For definitions of 'amusement' that include 'all I want from life is to strangle my own son with my bare hands'. "Just - he's not like how you're making him out to be. He's on YouTube."

"Yep, since only the classiest and most elite performers are on YouTube."

"Look him up. His stage name's Musashi."

"Mu - the guy's _Japanese_?"

"No. He just likes samurai."

Stiles's head _spins_. It's like he's on crack. Maybe he _is_ on crack. Holy shit. "Dad, I think this may be the single freakiest conversation I've ever had with you, and that includes that one time you tried to warn me about the bad touch. Using hand-puppets. Of Sesame Street characters."

"Not my best moment," Dad mutters, eventually, after a blooperish snort that Stiles suspects is a stifled giggle. Yeah, his dad_giggles_. It's embarrassing. For anyone, but especially for a sheriff. Or a sheriff's son.

"Is he ripped?" Stiles asks, for some reason.

"Huh?"

"Your roommate. Is he ripped?"

"What does that have to do with - is this another Danny conversation?"

"No, Dad, this isn't another Danny conversation." Although, it _could_ be. In reverse. His dad hasn't talked this much about someone since that nice, if rather pasty-faced secretary of one of the high-profile criminals Dad had brought in. Predictably, that hadn't ended well. Crime scenes don't make for the most romantic backdrops, and she'd ended up thinking Dad was sort of a freak. Which, uh. She might've had a point. The Stilinskis are the undisputed champions of the freak gene. They might even be the only reason it's survived Darwinian evolution.

"I think he's too old for you, son."

"But not too young for you?"

"Stiles. Focus. I know you said you also like boys - "

"_Not_ a Danny conversation, Dad - "

" - but men are off-limits. I thought we agreed."

Er. Does Derek count as a man? Possibly. Except, he's a werewolf. Not a man. So, technically, Stiles hasn't broken his promise to stay away from older dudes until he, himself, is an older dude. "Yeah," Stiles says, trying for innocent and probably only achieving hit-over-the-head-with-a-crowbar. "Totally."

"And he _is_ ripped."

"Dad!"

"You asked!"

"You _noticed_?"

"There's a gym, all right? Next to the hotel lobby, and it's. I work out. Sometimes. With him."

"With the ripped boy-toy samurai rapper from Fresno. Who bonds with you over lolcats. I gotta meet this guy."

"No, you don't. In fact, please don't."

"I'm not the one who'll scare him off!"

"Like I am! Wait, I'm not even - why would I want to - I'm not invested in not scaring him off."

Yeah, right. "Oh, crap. If you room with him, does that mean he's there, _now_? Has he heard every word you've _said_?" There goes another potential conquest of Dad's, discovering the freak gene way too early in the dating game. Not that Dad's dating this guy. Right? They're just sharing a room. A room in which they laugh at lolcats. And definitely don't check each other out. Or notice whether or not the other guy's ripped. _Shit._

"Um, no, he's - he's out, right now."

Out? This late? "Doing _what_?"

"Homework."

"_Homework?_"

"In the computer lab, downstairs. We have to make these presentations - it's pointless, really, bureaucratic nonsense about communicating with other law-keeping agencies using pie-charts, or something - so much clearer than just _talking_, right? It's useless. Anyway - we have to make these presentations, and it's his turn, tomorrow, and he's at the lab. With two other cops who're also presenting."

Damn. Rivals. "Could these cops, under any circumstance or system of classification, be defined as 'kittens'?"

"_Stiles_," his dad huffs. "Goodnight."

The next time Stiles calls, he's gonna get _Musashi_ on the line, too. But, for now… "Goodnight, Dad."

"I love you."

"Love you."

"Bye."

They hang up.

Stiles debates about whether or not to go surfing for Dad's not-boyfriend on YouTube, but, eh. He'll do it tomorrow. He's tired, now that most of the tension's bled out of him, and he needs to sleep. Not that he isn't still _wired_, but it's a quiet hum of nerves, instead of the shrieking cacophony of crazy he'd been carrying around, before. Yeah, his dad's awesome. And odd. But awesome.

He sticks his head out the front door to ask Jackson if he wants some hot chocolate, or something - it's Jackson's turn on night watch - but Jackson just makes his typical, ungrateful bitch-face and shrugs, sprawling like some kind of James Bond heroine on the porch.

Dickwad.

He must've heard most of what Stiles and his dad talked about - there's no such thing as privacy in a house filled with werewolves - but he isn't acting any different, which, dickwad. Emotionally constipated dickwad. Or maybe Jackson's being considerate. In his Jackson-y way. Stiles doesn't even know.

The bedroom, when he gets to it - and it's _his_ bedroom, okay, there's no denying it - is dark. Almost too dark for him to notice that _Derek's on his bed_, with _Jar_, but then, there's no way he couldn't notice that, not with Derek's gleaming, phosphorous eyes fixed on him, and the faint moonlight from the dusty window making Jar's fur looks like the softest, most silvery velvet in the world.

Stiles just stands there, slowly coming to terms with the fact that, for all intents and purposes, that's his husband and his baby. His _husband_. And his _baby_.

And they're both furry. Heck, maybe Musashi isn't the only one with a thing for furries; Stiles shouldn't be pointing fingers.

He gives up and climbs into bed.

"What're you doing here?" he asks, because while one of them does tend to sleep with Jar, every night, they've never done it together, in either of their rooms. If it was just him and Derek on a mattress, Stiles would start flipping out about potential sex-stuff, but Jar's between them like the most adorable buffer zone ever - seriously, Jar's like _Poland_ - so Stiles can relax.

"You aren't sleeping."

"Um, duh, I'm awake? Ergo, I am not sleeping." Stiles reaches out to pet Jar's hair; Jar snuffles, but doesn't stir. Good kid. His sleeping hours have become more stable, lately.

"No. You haven't been sleeping. You're… worried."

"Hah. Don't pretend that _you've_ been sleeping, either. None of us are. Scott looks like a panda, for god's sake. A very dumb panda. Then again, pandas _are_ sort of dumb - "

"Take your shirt off."

"What?" Where the hell did that come from? Also, baby. Buffer-baby. Baby that is a buffer. Right? Oh, shit. "Is this a sex thing?"

"It isn't a sex thing," says Derek, tolerantly. "Take your shirt off. I need to scent-mark you. So does Jar."

"_Jar_ needs to mark me, now?"

"He's your cub," Derek says, like that explains anything.

Which - okay. It does. Even Imogen Marsters' book on human babies has a sub-chapter on 'The Safety of Scent,' which means werebabies must need it even more.

So Stiles takes his shirt off, trying not to panic about a non-sexual thing that is not sexual, it's not like he's stripping in front of his boyfriend-husband-mate, or anything. Ha, ha. Ha.

Fuck.

The air isn't cold, but it's just cool enough to make his nipples pebble, and Stiles has to fight the completely surreal and wacky urge to cross his arms over his chest like some Victorian nun. Or, or _swoon_ like a Victorian nun, when Derek briefly sits up to drag his _own_ shirt off.

Stiles is… not staring. He's not. This isn't staring; his eyes just happen to land on a random patch of moonlight that happens to be on Derek's chest. Pectoral. Pec. Oh, god, it's flexing. It's flexing like a living _thing_. Probably because Derek's flinging the shirt aside like a nudist caveman that's all too happy to see it go, and muscles just happen to work that way, you move your arm and your pec flexes like something out of cheap porn, nothing special about it, certainly nothing that warrants staring, which Stiles is not doing, because this is totally an accident. An eye-accident. His eyeballs have accidentally rolled to a stop at the wrong place. Happens all the time. Just ask those conveyor belts at airports. They stop all the goddamn time.

Not that conveyor belts could reply, even if someone asked them. Because they don't have mouths. Stubbled mouths. Or nipples. Conveyor belts with nipples would be bizarre. Like, Frankenstein-level bizarre. Nipples-on-Batman's-kevlar-suit bizarre. Actually, that kevlar suit _had_ looked like it was made from a conveyor belt. Wow. Everything comes back to conveyor belts. It's like six degrees of separation. But with nipples.

Great. Now Derek's nipples are hardening, too.

Stiles realizes that he's just kneeling there, with his jaw hanging open and what feels suspiciously like a bit of drool edging its way past the corner of his lips, so he snaps his mouth shut and swallows back what suddenly seems like way too much spit. Stupid salivary glands. Going into overdrive for no reason.

Derek lies back down next to Jar, raising an eyebrow. His nipples are still hard. And what's fucked up about this situation is that Stiles doesn't even know what's getting to him more - the eyebrow or the nipples. God, he's got it so bad. It's ludicrous.

Maybe lying down will allow Stiles to study the ceiling like it holds the secrets of the universe, or something, and that might be a good distraction. From Derek's pecs. Also, Stiles does have to sleep, and the whole sleeping thing requires him to be lying down. He isn't, unfortunately, a Borg. He can't just sleep while standing up and hooked to a charging station. Then again, half the world wishes it had Seven of Nine's problems. Boobs. Problems.

So that's what Stiles does - he lies down, on Jar's _other_ side, and starts his devoted perusal of the ceiling. It has pretty shadows on it. Spiky, but pretty. They kind of resemble the Klingon script. Which, uh, means that Stiles is really nervous, because he only starts making Trekkie references this frequently when he's stressed out. It's great how he knows himself well enough to recognize that. He might not even need a shrink. Much.

But then, Derek's hand sort of… drifts across the space between them, like a warm, heavy, _huge_ spider, and Stiles's heart _thuds_in his chest.

"You're sure this isn't a sex thing?" Stiles squeaks, because apparently, someone swapped his vocal chords out with Minnie Mouse's when he wasn't looking. Which he wasn't. Because he was looking at Derek's chest. Which he wasn't. Because he wasn't staring. At Derek. Whose abs are rising and falling as he breathes, and, wait, what happened to the ceiling? Stiles was supposed to be giving it his undivided attention. Ceilings are needy. They have to be nurtured.

"Stiles," says Derek, and it's so _wrong_ that he should have that look on his face, that starving-dog-that's-denying-itself-a-meal look, when Stiles is basically just a string-and-bone puppet of nerviness and doesn't have pectorals like a Greek god. Stiles isn't deserving of mind-bending lust, or - or _longing_. He isn't deserving of that, at all. "It isn't a sex thing."

"Nuh - nice to know. Your hand is _suddenly on my naked skin ohgodwhat_ and it isn't a sex thing, also you look like I'm a plate of honey-glazed barbecue ribs and you're a hungry cowboy that's been wandering the wastes while attractively unshaven and unfed, and, uh, you seem like you're going to eat me. Is that it, then? Not a sex thing, but a food thing? Am I food? 'Cause Lydia was talking about that earlier, and Jackson had this weird moment, and - "

"Stiles." Derek's thumb is on Stiles's _throat_. Stroking. Back and forth. Back and forth. "Be quiet. You'll wake Jar up."

"Dude, Jar loves it when I babble. He finds it soothing."

Derek doesn't answer in actual words; his voice is a low, gravelly hum. Huh. Maybe it isn't just Jar that finds it soothing.

And Stiles might even find the throat-stroking soothing, if his body wasn't busy growing a boner like its very own bonsai tree. He shifts restlessly, willing it to go away. "Not a sex thing," Stiles mutters to himself, and Derek's palm slips down to his _chest_. Crap.

"You smell like a sex thing," Derek says, after a while, which, while it may be factually accurate, is the least helpful observation ever made, by anyone. Ever.

"Look, just - ignore that, okay? I'm like a bottle of perfume, man, I have no control over the bouquet of teenage hormones and sweat that I'm, I'm _exuding_, all right?"

"All right," Derek agrees, and, because he's a psycho, doesn't even change expression when his fingers skate over Stiles's _nipple_.

Stiles _jerks_. "What. What even - yeah, _right_, this isn't a sex thing - "

"I have to touch you. That's the point."

"Yeah, but do you have to touch all the fiddly bits? All the - f-f- "

Derek's thumb is now doing to Stiles's nipple what it had done to his _throat_ - just rubbing it, back and forth, lightly, so lightly that Stiles can almost tell himself that it isn't there, at all, except that it _is_ there, it's so very _there_, sparking little shocks all along Stiles skin.

"F-_fuck_. Derek, stop. _Stop_, I refuse to have a boner in front of the baby."

"You already do. Have one."

"It'll _go away_. If you stop _molesting me_. Jesus, you - do you even understand the concept of something _not_ being a sex thing?" Stiles's nipple feels unnaturally stiff, sensitive and electric and teased to a humiliating peak, and it doesn't help that Derek looks like he wants to _bite_ it.

But, miraculously, Derek listens to him.

"Mm," Derek says, and shifts his hand to Stiles's waist.

Stiles is not in the least disappointed.

Even though his boner is. Goddamn mindless boner. This is why the citizens of Boner City don't deserve the right to vote. They have no brains, whatsoever. They'd elect a cock-ring as president, if given the choice. Or maybe they'd elect Derek Hale. Derek Hale in a cock-ring. Derek Hale putting a cock-ring _on Stiles_. Fuck.

"You might want to try not thinking sex thoughts," Derek says, dryly, and Stiles rolls his eyes.

"I don't see you not thinking them, Mr. Bad Toucherson."

"I'm not playing with your nipple, anymore."

"Don't - don't just _say_ that! What is _wrong_ with you?"

Derek frowns, slightly. "But it's the truth."

"It's - fine, okay, no sex-thoughts. I'mma think baby-thoughts. Safe, practical baby-thoughts. Boner-killing thoughts. Oh, hell, I've scarred Jar for life. He's never going to have a normal sex drive."

"I don't think he'll remember any of this."

Fuck Derek and the deadpan horse he rode in on. Except that there is no horse. And there is no fucking. Which Stiles is _not disappointed about_, damn it, because he's still not ready for the whole enchilada. Not that he's ever thought of Derek's dick as an enchilada. A very long, very thick enchilada - stop. _Stop._ "Yes, he will. In his _subconscious mind_. It'll be a repressed memory that some creepy therapist will one day dig up from his hypnotized brain, or something, and then tell him that his mommy issues with his _male mom_ are why he can't get a girlfriend."

"Move closer."

"Oh, _hell_ to the no. You'll ravish me!"

"Move. Closer." Derek's eyes are glowing like embers, _just_ red enough to be warning. "Closer to Jar. Closer to _me_."

Well, damn. Stiles slides across to Jar and curls around him. He gathers Jar up against himself, marveling at how small-but-alive Jar is, all silky fur and baby-skin, his miniature heart beating away against Stiles's own. Jar's toes keep curling and uncurling, like maybe Jar's running in an imaginary forest, somewhere, in his dreams. It's unbearably cute. Stiles cups his hands under them, under Jar's tiny, twitching feet, and feels -

He feels -

Necessary.

Full.

Here.

_Safe_.

Derek was right. Imogen Marsters was right. This whole skin-to-skin thing is a big deal. All that talk about completeness and belonging, all those theoretical words, but they're _real_. They're important. Jar feels like a part of him, now. An extension of his body, his heart, his _life_. And so is Derek, a massive wall of muscled heat and feral protectiveness, between them and the window, between them and the _world_, and it's - it's good, so good, so right, so _good_.

Stiles's eyes are drifting shut.

His erection has faded away, which is great, because this isn't a sex thing - Derek said so, even if he didn't seem to believe it, himself. Hypocrite.

Derek isn't just resting a hand on Stile's waist, now; he's got an arm thrown over Stiles's back, with Jar nestled between them, sharing their breaths.

Everything will be okay. Jar belongs here; he so obviously belongs here that there's just no way he _could_ go anywhere. Stiles can't imagine him going anywhere.

Derek's purring again, that subsonic growl of soul-deep satisfaction, and it shouldn't make Stiles even drowsier, but it does.

Everything's so close, so warm, so _steady_, and it's…

It's been too long since Stiles slept properly, and he…

He's falling asleep, he's…

He's asleep.

* * *

><p>The next morning's one of the most beautiful mornings Stiles has seen all summer, crystal-blue skies and fresh breezes from the kitchen window, and Stiles can even enjoy it all, because yesterday, he had a) a cathartic talk with his dad, and b) a cathartic cuddle with Derek.<p>

He's more relaxed than he's been in days, so naturally, that's when Max Werner decides to show up.

It's Jackon's warning howl that alerts him, first, and nearly makes him drop the carton of powdered milk he's been trying to open.

Then, there's the _bang_ of three pairs of feet simultaneously hitting the floor, because Derek and Lydia and Scott have just… leaped down the staircase without bothering to use the actual stairs.

"Stay here," snarls Derek, fangs already out, and Stiles hurries out to stop him.

"No," Stiles says, and he's strangely calm, all of a sudden, like something inside him has settled into a solid, unshakeable certainty. He isn't going to lose Jar. He just isn't. There isn't even anything to be worried about. "_No_, Derek. Remember what we talked about? No killing. No frothing at the mouth. I'm going to get the door, because he knows me, and even if he wants to murder us all, he'll… probably leave me for last? I think."

But before Stiles can convince Derek to _stick to their original plan_, thanks very much, _Jackson's_ opening the door, looking like death warmed up, and it's not just because he's been outside all night, on watch duty, but because he's _scared_.

Jackson is so clearly, transparently scared that Stiles doesn't have to be a werewolf to smell it on him.

The reason for Jackson's fear - and Lydia's convulsive growling - follows Jackson inside.

"Why, hello, Spitfire," Max smiles, when he catches sight of Stiles. "It's wonderful to see you again."


	6. Chapter 6

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* * *

><p><strong>REASONABLE TO ASSUME<strong>

**- Part VI -**

* * *

><p>Stiles isn't sure how they make it to the living room without bloodshed, because Derek's <em>vibrating<em> like a death god on speed, but Stiles keeps a hand on Derek's arm and a smile pasted on his face. Okay, so maybe it's more like a rictus than a smile, but, whatever. Stiles is totally being a normal co-parent welcoming a non-hostile guest into his home. And if he feels like a society wife that just happens to be married to Frankenstein, then, well. So be it.

Max seems to find all of it hilarious, especially when Scott grows wolf-ears and flattens them back against his head, which, fuck, Scott's an idiot. An obvious idiot. In fact, they're all being so obvious that Stiles is pretty sure he's gonna have to put on a hula skirt and start dancing in order to distract Max from all the obviousness.

"You must've had a lot to do," Stiles says, wondering if putting actual curlers in his hair will even make a difference, at this point. He might as well be wearing a blood-stained apron with I LOVE MY WEREMOM on it. "In Beacon Hills."

"Oh?" Max settles on the old armchair, somehow managing to transform its ratty hulk into a kind of decrepit-but-imposing medieval throne. Regal bastard. And he's wearing a suit, this time. What werewolf wears a _suit_? "What makes you say that?"

"Uh, it took you almost a _week_ to show up?" Stiles pulls Derek down to sit beside him on the couch. "Just saying."

"Why would you have been waiting for me? Were you that eager to see me, Spitfire?"

Derek hackles go _up_.

Max cocks a mocking eyebrow. "Or were you busy hiding something you didn't want me to discover?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about. None of us have any idea what you're talking about. Do we, guys?"

Jackson looks like he's going to piss himself. Lydia's growling like a wolf-goddess on PMS. Scott's all but got his tail between his legs. Derek's literally sharpening his claws. Against _each other_.

"Okay! Yes. Clearly, there is nothing going on here. Coffee?"

Max's lips quirk. "You're all very charming. Very… innocent."

Stiles _winces_.

"And, yes, I'd love some coffee."

"How fortuitous! We happen to have some coffee. Lydia can't live without her coffee. Which is why Lydia's going to go and make some. For all of us. Jackson and Scott will be her coffee-making assistants. Because she's incapable of handling any kitchen implements that aren't meat cleavers."

Both Lydia and Jackson stare at him. Scott mouths 'Fortuitous?' - which, all right, that might've been overkill. Crap. He's got to stop thinking of words with 'kill' in them.

"Well?" Stiles shoos them, when they just stand there, dithering, like they've been commanded to desert a strategic hilltop in the middle of a war, or something. "Go!"

They go.

Thank _god_. Stiles isn't going to maintain his mate-cred if no one listens to him.

Stiles turns to Max. He also moves his grip to Derek's knee, in a way that hopefully seems sweet and couple-y instead of paranoid and controlling. Not that Stiles had ever thought he'd ended up acting as Derek's _leash_, but, damn. If Derek doesn't calm the heck down, someone _will_ be dead by the end of the day.

Max sits back on his throne. And steeples his fingers under his chin.

Seriously. He _steeples_ his _fingers_. Who does he think he is, Lex Luthor? That's a super-villain complex if Stiles has ever seen one - and he has. Peter Hale, anybody?

Derek finally unclenches his jaw and retracts his fangs long enough to say: "You accosted my mate."

"Oh, I didn't _accost_ him. You make it sound so filthy."

"You encroached on my territory, _trespasser_, and you _accosted my mate_."

"Is there a reason we're suddenly talking all medieval-like?" Stiles interrupts, before Derek starts italicizing every word. That generally isn't a good sign. "No? Because I'm not a damsel in distress. And you, darling," Stiles says to Derek, smiling so widely that his face _hurts_, "aren't my knight in furry armor. Okay? Okay. So, if we could return to being diplomatic and non-threatening…"

"If you touch him," Derek tells Max, "I will kill you."

Stiles buries his head in his hands. There's no point in holding onto Derek's knee, anymore; Derek is obviously out to fuck things up. You can't stop a tank when it's on a rampage, and Derek's a tank in a china shop. A miniature china shop. Made of glass.

"Noted." Max seems _amused_. "Nevertheless, you are aware that if your mate should, himself, elect to be touched by another, there is nothing you can do about it?"

Where the hell is this conversation going? Isn't it supposed to be about _Jar_? "Um," says Stiles, "I'm not exactly running for office, and I haven't 'elected' to do anything. With anyone. Except Derek." God, he's blushing. He knows he is. It doesn't help that he hasn't gotten past the primaries, either, if they're using political metaphors for Stiles's pathetic, mostly self-imposed virginity.

But, again, Derek ignores him. As if Stiles isn't feeling like enough of a Victorian bride. Jesus Christ, was this how women were treated, pre-suffrage? Stiles is so gonna partner up with Allison for her feminism project. Hell, he'll even burn his non-existent bra. "There is much I can do and will do, trespasser."

"My name is Max. Max Werner. Did I say it was a pleasure to meet you, too? I didn't? How rude of me. I'm thrilled, really. It's such a joy to see how utterly undeserving you are of your mate."

Derek's eyes go _red_.

"_Stop it_," Stiles says, because he's had enough of this. He isn't some sort of - whatever these guys are treating him like. A shank of meat caught in a tug of war between two sharks. It's just - it's demeaning, and humiliating, and it makes him want to _stab_someone in a way that isn't even subconsciously phallic or remotely about reasserting his masculinity by penetrating another person.

Right. Sometimes, Stiles wishes his favorite school subject wasn't Psychology.

"Just. Stop. We all know what you're here for, Max, and it isn't this." _Me._ "Isn't me."

"Isn't it?" Max asks.

_What._

"No, no, carry on. Your den mother instincts are extraordinary, but have failed you in this regard, I'm afraid. Mr. Hale, why don't you enlighten your mate as to my intentions?"

Derek's fangs are making a reappearance.

"Then again, if you choose not to inform him, I can hardly be blamed for taking matters into my own hands. It is, after all, the Law."

And, yeah, Derek's fangs are out. Completely. They seem shinier than ever before.

"Derek," says Stiles, carefully. "Um. Maybe you could stop wigging out and _say something_? To the person who's the subject of this entire conversation, even though he never expected to be? That's me, by the way." Derek still isn't talking. "Hello?"

"You didn't tell me he wanted you," Derek grits out, at last. How he manages to talk through his fangs without, like, _lisping_ or slicing his tongue open is a phenomenon Stiles has yet to grasp.

"Uh. That's because he. Doesn't?"

"Oh, child, I do," Max smiles.

"Maybe you shouldn't call me 'child', then, you creepy pedo-wolf," Stiles snaps. "And what the _hell_? Since when?"

"I thought I made my intentions perfectly clear, when we last met."

"_I_ thought you were just trying to freak me out. Like. Throw me off my game." Stiles shifts until he's facing Derek. "Look, he doesn't want me. That's just - "

"He wants you," Derek cuts him off. "I can smell it on him."

Oh.

Oh, _fuck_.

What is Stiles, werewolf catnip? Werenip? _What?_

Holy shit, does this mean even _Uncle Peter_ was diggin' on him? With the - the wrist-touching and the -

Fuck. _Fuck_.

"Fine," Stiles says, fighting off a bout of intense, incredulous dizziness. And nausea. Can't forget the nausea. "Fine, so creep-daddy here is creepin' on me. Great. I still fail to see how any of this is relevant. Because I'm obviously not going to say yes."

"But you are," Max says, resting his chin on his steepled fingers. "Isn't he, Mr. Hale?"

"I have no clue what you're saying," Stiles says, "and also, _no_. Tell him, Derek."

But Derek's frozen. Breathing tightly, like someone's got a hand wrapped around his throat and is _squeezing_.

For the first time since this crazy tea-party (without the tea) began, Stiles feels a frisson of pure _terror_ run through him. "Derek. What's he saying? Please tell me what he's saying."

"He isn't saying anything," Derek lies. Like, flat-out _lies_ to him. "Werner, we decline your offer. Get the hell out of here."

"You're willing to forfeit everything, then? A poor choice, as an Alpha. Not very utilitarian."

"Not all of us see a pack as a matter of _utility_," Derek spits. "You're the failure as an Alpha. If you think you can make a pack like this - by murdering, by stealing - "

"My pack," Max says, in a hushed, _menacing_ voice, "is one of the most powerful on the American continent. As well you know."

"It's one of the most backward packs, and its own adherence to the Law will kill it."

"The Law is ancient."

"The Law is _insane_."

"Say that to the council, and they'll have your head."

"You're one of the council members, aren't you? Too late."

What - what _even_ - "He's on the council?" Stiles squawks, because that's about the only thing he can make sense of, out of everything that was just said.

"Only as an adjunct," Max clarifies, like that's any less alarming. "And I certainly wouldn't bring my position to bear on this issue; that would be inappropriate and a violation of the Law."

"Ina - you make a move on me in front of my _mate_, and that isn't inappropriate?"

"I'm within my rights to request that you consider me as a mate, instead."

Stiles mimes tapping his cheek thoughtfully. "Yeah, no," he says. "Wait, let me think about it - still no. Sorry."

"Even if it costs you the life of your cub?"

Stiles's heart… stops beating. For a second.

"Get. Out," Derek rumbles, and his shoulders are all bunched up like he's about to _pounce_, and Stiles -

Stiles reaches out for him, blindly, and grabs his hand.

Derek _stills_.

It takes Stiles a moment to realize that he's cut his palm slightly on the claws that Derek hadn't managed to withdraw in time, and that he's bleeding, and that Max Werner's eyes are a dark, roiling, _starving_ grey.

Everything makes sense.

Everything.

"You're an idiot," Stiles hears himself say to Derek, as if from a distance. "The hell did you try to lie to me, for?"

"I didn't - "

"Yes, you did. Now shut up."

Derek… stares at him. And shuts up.

Good. Miraculous, but good. "Mr. Werner," Stiles starts -

"Max. Please." The bastard looks so _interested_. Like Stiles is the liveliest sideshow in the only circus he's ever seen.

"Max. The answer is no."

"I'd thought you were the type to sacrifice yourself for your cub," Max says. "Unless, of course, that young pup I hear stirring upstairs isn't your cub, at all?"

"Oh, he's mine. Mine and Derek's. Our _pack's_."

"And yet you wouldn't risk yourself to save him?"

"'Course I would," Stiles says, "in a heartbeat. If I could actually keep Jar safe by letting you tap my ass - "

"You know what I'm asking for is much more than that."

" - or marry me, and _then_ tap my ass - I would totally do that. But he's not in danger, is he?"

Derek's hand tightens on his. "Stiles - "

"I thought I told you to shut up, _dear_," says Stiles, placidly. "My point is, Jar isn't even in danger. Why the hell should I prostitute myself?"

"There's no need to be crass," Max remarks, mildly, but his eyes are _sharp_. They aren't just grey, anymore; they're silver. Which means Stiles is going about this the right way. Score. "I'd never ask you to debase yourself."

"Sure. Inviting yourself to my home and then treating me like a trophy, that's not debasing. What makes you think _Derek_ treats me bad? At least he doesn't threaten my cub _to test me_."

Max's eyes are full-on glowing, now. "You're a clever little thing. Aren't you?"

"Case in point: I figured out that you're a douche. Which doesn't take much figuring out, honestly. I got that the moment I met you."

"Flattering."

"Yeah, it is, isn't it?"

Derek's almost pulverizing his hand, by now. "_Stiles - _"

"Be quiet, love-muffin."

Max's lips _twitch_.

"I apologize for my mate," Stiles says. "He's gorgeous, as you can see - "

"You're lovelier."

"Uh, _no_. I'm not. But his abs are pretty much all he's good for. Sorry to say."

Derek's gnashing his _fangs_. That's gotta be uncomfortable.

"I'm so sorry that you had to play chess with _him_." Stiles has never been this earnest in his _life_. "Really, I am. You must've been bored."

"Terribly." Max's eyes are still glowing, but in a warmer, _weirder_ way that… Stiles is not going to think about, because that way lies Pedo-Wolf Land. "Until now."

"Right. So. I'm in the game. And, you know, checkmate. And all that."

"Stiles," Derek hisses, "what - "

"Derek. Apple of my eye. Fire of my loins."

Max _snorts_.

"Would you please tell your Betas and your Omega to stop hovering in the hallway just outside this room? I think we all know they aren't making any coffee."

"Um," says Scott, from behind the door, "but you're not a werewolf. You can't hear us." And then, he _yips_, in a way that probably means Lydia's just smacked him upside his head.

"Yeah, but I _know_ you. Can you guys get Jar washed? It's his bath-time."

"Yes, Mommy," drawls Lydia, and there's the shuffle of feet trudging up the stairs. Reluctantly.

Max is looking at Stiles with raised eyebrows.

"What? Delegation. Works wonders. Derek's brilliant with diapers, by the way. Which is another reason he's an _excellent_ mate. Other than his gorgeousness. And his abs."

"And his absolute inability to out-think you."

Stiles nods cheerfully. "That helps."

"I think it's time you explained things to _me_," Derek growls, and aww, is ickle poopsie-kins feeling emasculated? Belittled? Well, turnabout's foreplay.

Fair play. Uh. Damn it, Stiles hates it when his _thoughts_ get in on the Freudian slips. "See, Max is a douche, right? Also, he's a member of the council. Adjunct, or whatever. But still. Also, his pack's a big fucking deal. Also, he's a control freak. Also, he's ambitious. Also, he's a lupine fundamentalist."

"Delightful phrasing," Max observes.

"It wasn't a compliment, jackass. You're a rightwing nutcase, is what I'm saying. So, Derek. _Because_ Max is trying to play all those roles, he's got limits. A whole lotta limits. More limits on his behavior than _we_ do, because we're just a random mongrel pack with nothing on the line, no reputation to lose, no respect, nothing."

"Thanks," Derek mutters, dryly. His fangs are mostly gone, praise de lawd. Possibly, Stiles's absence of a fear-scent has lowered the threat-level in Derek's lizard brain. Stiles resolves to smell even more like a pastoral landscape in the future. Maybe by wearing a crown of daffodils. (Hey, it's not that girly. And Jar will love it.)

"Oh, Daddy, I'm sure you'll build the _best_ pack. As long as I'm around to help you do it."

"Of that," Max says, "I have no doubt."

"See? The psycho-pedo terrorist approves of me. I feel so validated."

"I'd hardly call myself a terrorist."

"Uh. When you enter people's houses and try to terrify them into cooperating with you? That's terrorism, buddy. Not that you're my buddy. Because you're not. At all. I noticed how you didn't discount the 'psycho' and 'pedo' labels."

Max just _looks_ at him. Appreciatively.

Stiles gulps. And pats Derek's hand until Derek stops grrr-ing. "You sound like a lawnmower, sweetie. A very, very tiny lawnmower. Stop it."

Derek… stops it. And squeezes Stiles's hand back.

"Right. So basically, Max can't risk his standing, because he doesn't just want to be an _adjunct_ council member. Do you, Max?"

"Very astute."

"Yep, astute. That's me. I figure, what's a rightwing douchewolf with ambitions gotta do to get elected into the council? He's got to keep a clean record, that's what. Observe every… whatchamacallit, _nuance_ of the Law. Observe it down to the bloody letter. And it's bloody. Very bloody. How many of your pack members have you killed, by the way? To keep the Law?"

"A few," Max says, easily. "Loose ends, I like to call them."

Stiles does _not_ shudder, thinking of Jar as one of those loose ends, of Jar's _mom_ as a 'loose end'. If the werewolves ever set up their own version of the Ku Klux Klan, Stiles won't be surprised to see guys like Max leading the charge. It makes him ill. "Uh-huh. I've read the Book of the Law, by the way, and it's such trigger-happy bullshit, why would you even want to get involved in that?"

"There is safety in numbers."

"Not if you _kill all your numbers_, man. Basic arithmetic. Ever do Math in school?"

Max studies him. "You ought to apply to the council. An approach like yours might… change things. For the better."

"Yeah, like you think my approach is better."

"I might. I simply do what I must, in order to accumulate power for my pack under the current system. Alas, the current system involves joining the council, and following the Law. Therefore, that is what I do. If the council changed, however…" Max shrugs. "My conduct would change accordingly."

"So what you're telling me is that you're a soulless opportunist," Stiles says. "Oh my god, you're Mitt Romney." Stiles's brain tries to catch up with that horrifying revelation. "_Mitt Romney_ wants me. Eww."

"If I did adopt your ideas," Max says, out of nowhere, "and presented them to the council… would that make me a worthier mate? In your eyes?"

Stiles _gapes_.

"Not that I _would_; that would be foolish, and would undo years of work, besides."

"Oh, g-good. Because that's - "

"Unless, of course, I killed most of the current council members and took over. I could then apply your philosophy with ease."

"My philosophy doesn't involve _killing people_, okay, what are you even - are you _serious_? Say you're not serious. Please. I'm not going to be the face that launched a thousand ships. How did this even - am I on _drugs_? Derek, did I take something this morning that I wasn't aware of? Did Lydia spike the milk, again?"

"No," says Derek, after an extended pause. He's got a funny look on his face - if by 'funny' you mean 'split between an expression of blank incredulity and dawning horror'.

And, yeah, Stiles is starting to get that Max Werner might be into him. Like, hardcore into him. A _lot_ into him. For more than just his ass. "Ha. Ha ha. Which means this is real. Max, I'mma tell you straight up that if you kill someone that isn't immediately, physically trying to kill you _first_ and has his or her fangs, like, _two centimeters away from your throat_, I would not approve and I would definitely not think you made a better mate."

"This is the world of werewolves. Kill or be killed. It's impossible not to take preventative measures."

"Nah, y'see, in human history? 'Preventative measures' tend to lead to nuclear holocausts. So, no. Just. No."

"Your pacifism will be short-lived." Max looks _concerned_. "Or you will."

"Gee, thanks for that vote of confidence. I'll take my chances. But getting back to the topic, _if you don't mind_ - you can't threaten to take Jar away, and you can't threaten me by threatening _him_, because he's not your cub, anyway. The Law won't let you take him away. So what the hell're you trying to threaten me with? You can't prove Jar wasn't born here."

"Until I find his mother. She fled my pack, but I _will_ find her. And when I do, her scent will be a match with the cub's, and will prove my case."

"Uh. No, it won't. 'Cause, see, you just gave yourself away. Derek, he just gave himself away. C'mon, He-man, you can work it out. What _didn't_ Max mention?"

"The father," Derek says, slowly, eyes widening.

"Exactly. It's all, mother this, mother that. No father. So I'm thinkin', given how Max is a fundamentalist? Who kills members of his _own pack_? And did something drastic enough to make the mother run away?" Stiles swallows, and _refuses_ to stumble over his words. He has to get this right. He _has_ to. "Max must've killed the f-father, already."

Max is silent. His eyes are quarter-moons of poisonous silver, lazy and serpentine and dangerously narrow.

"Didn't you? 'Cause you had to. 'Cause you're the boss. Your Omega - she'd have to be an Omega, wouldn't she? Or you wouldn't be so insulted by her disobedience. Your _Omega_ had a boyfriend you didn't approve of - maybe someone high enough in rank to endanger your position if he had a cub before _you_ did - so you killed him. It's the Law. You're allowed to. Hell, you're supposed to. And you're an adjunct council member who's gotta maintain his street cred, so you killed the poor bastard. And then, when the mom ran away, you tried to kill her. Only, she gave birth to the baby, first. _The_ baby, I didn't say it was Jar, I mean, obviously, 'cause Jar's ours." Stiles isn't even lying when he calls Jar theirs; he just _is_. "Right, Derek?"

"That's right." Derek is smiling. With teeth. A lot of teeth. Not fangs, because he's not flipping out anymore, but in a way, this is scarier than the fangs.

"And 'cause it fucks up your precious pack hierarchy, or whatever," Stiles continues, "you want to find this baby and kill it, too. But, say, theoretically, this baby was somewhere else. _With_ someone else. With another pack. How could you prove that the kid's father was from your pack, _too_? Maybe a wolf from this new pack was the father, and he wandered off. Wolves go rogue all the time. You don't have a matched set of scents, Max. You can't prove a thing. In fact, _trying_ to prove it will only make you come off as weak, and you don't want that, do you? Not if you wanna join the council, permanent-like."

"We're doing you a favor," says Derek, _pityingly_, which, heh. Derek _is_ catching on. And Max is bristling. Not visibly, but he _is_; Stiles can feel it. "We could go to the council, first. Complain about being harassed by you. You tried to steal my cub and blackmail my mate, all without any proof. I wonder what they'll say about that?"

"_Without_ any proof," Stiles picks up, gleefully, "they'll kick you out. Whoops! There goes your prestige. Your pack. What Alpha_won't_ challenge you for it? And you'll never make it as a primary member of the council. So much for that pipe-dream."

Max just _breathes_. His claws come out, retract, and come out again. Stiles has the distinct impression of a silver tiger, considering whether or not to make its kill. Max doesn't seem much like a wolf; he resembles something even deadlier.

"Uh. B-but, you know, we don't mind. We understand that you're… concerned for your pack, that's understandable, so we're not going to, um. Spill anything. To anyone. You can just go on home and announce to everyone you killed the kid - who's gonna know? It's not like anyone will doubt that _you_ didn't do it."

"That," says Max, after, like, _centuries_ of silence, "may or may not be a compliment."

"Yeah, well. The moral of the story is, never try to pull one over on a Stilinski. My dad's a _cop_, all right? He raised me to think like one, and lemme tell ya, we can smell a con a mile off, and we're not even werewolves."

"Indeed. If only you weren't present," Max says, sounding the _opposite_ of resentful - he sounds downright _fond_ - and, okay, also more-than-slightly pissed off, "I would've convinced the more credulous Mr. Hale to give the cub up. Or give _you_ up, at the risk of losing the lives of his entire pack. Either way, I would've profited; preferably, by obtaining you."

"Never," Derek grinds out, and his voice is like the edge of an _axe_. Stiles is frankly surprised Max hasn't cut himself on it - or_beheaded_ himself. Jesus.

"Good thing I was here, then," Stiles says, dismissively, like he isn't having inappropriate thoughts about Derek and Derek's possessiveness and is approximately 0.5 seconds away from sprouting a boner.

And maybe the way Stiles smells makes Max a little mentally unstable, because Max says: "Will you not be my mate?"

"_Huh?_"

Max tilts his head. "My. Mate," he enunciates. "You would be an asset to my pack. I do not mention this as an idle offer. It is a proposal."

Derek _snarls_ -

- and Stiles waves him silent. "Look, Max. I really… appreciate it. Only, no, I _don't_, it's not like you can't tell when I'm lying, right? So I'm turning you down. I already have a pack. And a mate. And a cub."

"Your cub would benefit from the safety of a more powerful pack."

"The safety of a pack that _kills its own cubs_? Wow."

"Not any cub," Max says. "Not yours. Not mine."

"_Leave_," says Derek, and this time, Stiles doesn't try to stop him. Or disagree with him.

"What he said," Stiles says. "I… I don't know why you're even - there's nothing that amazing about me, anyway - "

"What on earth have you been saying to him?" Max asks Derek, fucking _indignantly_, and Derek bristles.

"It's not _Derek's_ fault that I don't think I'm the shiniest pearl in the oyster of the universe. _Chill_. That's just a _fact_. Also, you need to go. I have to feed Jar in about thirty minutes." There're splashing and cooing noises echoing down the stairs, which means Jar's enjoying his bath, tiny paw-hands splashing in the water. Stiles feels a _tug_, in his heart, where a Jar-shaped hook has permanently lodged itself.

Max surveys him, like he's some sort of - Stiles doesn't want to _know_, but it makes Derek stand and move in front of Stiles. No,_prowl_ in front of Stiles. "Leave," Derek repeats, quietly.

Max sighs. And gets up. "Very well," he says. "I'm not accustomed to conceding defeat, but in this case, I must count myself happily outwitted." He sketches a short bow toward Stiles, and continues, "I will return. Every now and then. And make my proposal, repeatedly, until you see the wisdom of choosing my pack."

"Um, no offense, but you just said I outwitted you, which means my wits are better than yours. So my wisdom's better than yours, and my choices are - fuck!" Suddenly, Max has grabbed his wrist - like a striking _snake_ - and how the hell he even got_around_ Derek, Stiles doesn't know, but he's _there_, and Derek's muscles are coiling for an attack, and it's only Stiles's other hand coming up to haul Derek _back_ that prevents an epic werewolf blood-match to the death.

Derek's so tense, he's like a wall of rock. He's staring at Stiles's wrist, currently wrapped in Max's grip, and, shit, that's his serial killer face, right there.

"Calm down," says Stiles. Lightly. Not letting any of his massive internal freakout into his voice, because that _will_ tip Derek over the edge, and, no.

The fact that Scott, Lydia and Jackson seem to have magically appeared at the foot of the stairs isn't a coincidence, either. Crap. Stiles hadn't even _heard_ them come downstairs, and now, they're looking at Max with their gleaming, phosphorous-bright eyes. They don't even seem human.

"Are you _trying_ to start a pack war?" Stiles whispers - not that he knows why he's whispering, since in a room full of werewolves, everyone can hear a pin drop.

"Maybe I should," Max murmurs, as Stiles _stares_ at him. "If I were to destroy your pack, I could claim you, couldn't I?"

"Uh, you'll _die_ before you make it to the _door_." Stiles's pulse is beating so loudly, he can hardly hear himself speak.

Max's thumb slides over his palm - right over the shallow cuts Derek's claws left in him, and Stiles _flinches_. "Maybe I won't."

"Tell me," Derek says to Stiles, and Stiles knows what he means; that all Stiles has to do is say the word, and Derek will do his level best to rip Max's arm right _off_.

Stiles… doesn't say anything. He only lifts his chin, and refuses to look away from Max's eyes. Max is a psycho pervert, but he ain't stupid; he can smell the truth on Stiles, the truth of how much Stiles _doesn't_ want this, and how thoroughly Stiles will_murder_ him if he so much as touches a hair on anyone in Stiles's pack.

Max's mouth _parts_, eyes going blank and _hungry_, and, fuck, okay, maybe he _is_ stupid. Maybe they're all going to die. Maybe Max will go Two-Face on them and kill them all, or get killed and invite the vengeance of his pack on them, or maybe he'll just let it go, this time, but will return in two weeks with his huge Boston wereposse and tear down the Hale house. It's not like one Alpha and a couple teenagers and a _baby_ could stand a chance against a pack that's been ruling the Eastern seaboard since the fucking Civil War.

Stiles's eyes are drying in their _sockets_; he's going to have to blink, soon. Man, no one ever wrote about this in the great book of_Staring Contests For Dummies_.

There's also the fact that Stiles can only keep Derek back for so long; Derek's got this hair-trigger, Dirty Harry thing going on that means they're only a split second from a showdown.

But Stiles doesn't look away. Not even when Max lifts Stiles's bleeding hand to his lips and _kisses_ it, tastes it - hot, sickening flicker of tongue - and lets it go.

This… isn't the best time for Stiles's knees to turn into blobs of relieved jelly, so it's convenient how Derek's hands close around his hips and keep him from crumpling to the floor like some delicate… damsel. That Stiles had claimed he wasn't. And he isn't. He _isn't_.

"Uh," Stiles croaks. His hand feels kind of wet. And gross. And wet. Ugh, werewolf spit. It's like dog-drool in the way it's thicker and more slobbery than the human variety, but Derek's doesn't feel yucky like Max's does, for some reason. Maybe because it turns Stiles on, instead.

"I have your answer," says Max, and, hey. Is 'uh' an answer? "Out of consideration for you, I will not destroy your pack; if I do, I will never have you."

"You'll never have him," Derek says, apparently in the middle of the first ever incidence of one-man subzero nuclear fusion, because his voice is _freezing_. It raises the hairs on the back of Stiles's neck.

"So you say." Max grins, carelessly and with a hint of fang, like he hadn't just gone Phantom of the Opera on them a moment ago. "Well! This has been an unexpected failure in one sense, and an unqualified success in another. I've made a most valuable discovery. Spitfire, I'll make sure to drop by every now and then; doubtless, as you mature, you will recognize me as a more fitting partner."

"Um, I don't think so," says Stiles, moving to wipe his hand discreetly on his pants, before realizing that it might be too rude. Is it rude to wipe weredrool off of yourself in front of the werewolf who non-consensually forced his drool onto you?

But Max just _hums_, like he's indulging Stiles's quaint delusions. He looks at Stiles, for another couple minutes, as if memorizing his features - which is the single creepiest experience of Stiles's life, bar none, because it's like being reduced to a series of flashing numbers in the Terminator's visor. With a giant crosshair on Stiles's _face_.

And then, Max just… turns his back on them, like Derek isn't ready to skin him alive, and walks out.

"Shouldn't we be showing him out?" Stiles asks, at last. "As a, uh. As a guest?"

No one moves.

The front door opens and closes.

"Right," says Stiles. His intestines feel like they're in his _throat_. "Right, so I'd better get Jar's milk started - "

"No," Derek says.

"But I - "

"No. Let them," and then Derek's _dragging_ him up the stairs, Stiles practically falling over the steps in an effort to keep up, and Scott and Lydia and Jackson are still in glowy-eyed Cylon mode, staring up at them.

"I - I don't think they're up for that, right now. Jar will be _terrified_ - "

"No."

"But - "

"_No._"

"Is that the only word you're - ow!" Stiles yelps, because Derek's just dragged him into his bedroom and slammed the door, and then slammed _Stiles_ against it, and Stiles's fingers are in Derek's mouth, skimming across fangs and tongue, cuts stinging anew. "What - "

Derek _groans_, shuddering from head to toe like he's been electrocuted, and Stiles can't make any sense of what's happening beyond the fact that Derek's tugging off his _pants_, claws catching on and possibly ripping the belt, and Stiles's brain barely has the time to scream, 'NAKED! NAKED!' before those claws are scraping Stiles's _thighs_, and Stiles is abruptly, devastatingly hard. His skull is still reverberating with the impact of hitting the door, but it doesn't seem to make a damned bit of difference to Stiles's _dick_, or to Stiles's mouth, which falls open to let out the most shockingly obscene sound Stiles has ever _heard_.

Derek bites him. He just - he _bites_, and even though it isn't deep enough to permanently mangle Stiles's hand, it still fucking_hurts_, and Stiles lets out a ragged mewl and tries to pull his hand away, which - yeah. Doesn't work. Derek follows it, with his_teeth_, and laps and laps and laps at the bite until Stiles isn't sure whether the stuff dripping down to his wrist is blood or saliva, and he's _still_ hard, hard and leaking, and he feels messy and scared and turned on and fucked _up_, but his hips won't stop twitching and Derek won't let _go_.

"Sor," Derek is slurring against his palm. "Sorr - " But he isn't stopping, tearing his _own_ jeans open and pressing Stiles back, and this wasn't the way Stiles had imagined their first time going, but all his blown mind can process is that there's a _dick_ against his, holy crap, someone else's dick, _Derek's_ dick.

Everything's rough and weird and _fast_, horrifyingly fast, like a speed-train going off the rails or a car swerving into the wrong lane. Derek's fucking him. And, sure, it's not - not inside him, but it's still - there's no other word for it, Derek is _fucking_ him, rubbing them together, pre-come slicking their cocks but not enough for it for it to not burn, to not _ache_, the friction a sandpaper-sharp heat that's sore and near-painful and maddening, flushing his skin and making him break out into a full-body sweat, T-shirt clinging to his chest. Derek _thrusts_, and the spark zaps right through Stiles, catching like wildfire, a photo-flash of blinding _white_, and it's -

It's like being struck by a _flint_ -

Stiles is shaking and coming all over himself -

All over Derek's _dick_ -

But it's not over, yet. The smell of Stiles's come hits his nose _after_ it drives Derek absolutely fucking crazy, because Derek's biting him again and it hurts even _worse_, Derek's fangs savaging old wounds and opening new ones until it all just feels strangely numb, like the nerve-endings in his hand have fizzled out. His cock is sticky and over-sensitive, a twinge of too-keen sensation that makes Stiles shrink back, or _try_ to, but Derek's rocking against him with enough force to bruise Stiles's shoulders against the door and rattle the fucking _hinges_, and there's no way the rest of the pack can't hear them, but all Stiles can do is whine and grit his teeth and ride it _out_ -

He's almost hard again by the time Derek comes. Almost, but not quite, which is a relief, all things considered. His sweat is too cold, now, trickling down his back, making him itchy. His dick is _also_ pretty itchy, under all that flaking come, and even though Derek isn't cannibalizing his fingers, anymore, Stiles's hand is -

Stiles's hand is going to need some serious _stitches_. Goddamn. At least it isn't his dominant hand, which is something to be glad about. School isn't that far off, and he needs to _write_ with that hand. Homework. Is important. Tests. Are also important.

…oh. God.

He's just had sex.

He's just had sex _with Derek_, and it was -

It was way too high on fear-factor, which wasn't how he'd envisioned losing his virginity, and he'd have liked to get away with all his extremities intact and non-bloody, thank you very much, but it was still - it was _real_. It was _Derek_, and it was -

Derek being real, with him. No holding back, no non-sexual cuddles, no vaguely naughty touching, no stopping at second base.

They've - they've gone all the way. Finally. There isn't a trace of Max's scent on him, anymore, and Stiles knows that by the simple expediency of the fact that a) Derek's _stopped_, and b) Stiles no longer feels gross. There's just - there's nothing of Max left on him. And that's… good. Very good. Not that Stiles can explain _why_ it's good without sounding _deranged_, like Angelina Jolie trying to convince people why wearing a locket with her boyfriend's blood in a vial is a good idea. Just. It just _is_.

Jesus. Stiles had never expected to be one-half of the Brangelina of Beacon Hills.

Turns out, Derek's heavy, post-orgasm. So heavy that they both sort of… slide down the door, until Stiles is just sitting there with Derek slumped between his legs, panting.

Derek's _trembling_. Which is -

"Hey," Stiles says, softly, jostling Derek with a forearm, because he still can't use his hand. "You, uh. You okay?"

Derek _chokes_. And buries his nose in Stiles's neck. And doesn't stop trembling.

Okay. Okay, so this is - officially a nervous breakdown, right?

Stiles brings both his arms up, slowly, so as to not surprise Derek - and hugs him, or almost-hugs him, because, again, the hand. Keeping it out of the way. He does manage to pat Derek's back with his _other_ hand, though.

It's awkward and bizarre, to be sitting there with his dick hanging out of his pants and Derek leaning on him like he's the last wall in the _world_, but he makes something warm out of it, anyway, curling himself around Derek as much as he can, bringing his legs up on either side of Derek and just… cradling him. He's also talking, and it takes him a while to realize that he's mumbling about getting washed up, about feeding Jar, about… things he isn't paying attention to. He's on verbal autopilot, the words blending together in a low-voiced, continuous blur.

After a while, Stiles shuts up. He's been talking for so long, his throat is dry. He needs a drink of water. Even better, a drink of alcohol. He needs _bandages_, fuck, his hand is _pulsing_. He needs painkillers. He needs Jar.

He needs Derek to be all right with this.

Derek does speak, eventually. Right into Stiles's neck, muffled and broken and _wrecked_, and he says: "Sorry."

Just that. "You said that already," Stiles points out. "Look, it's - "

"Sorry," Derek says, again. "I - I didn't. I should've - "

"Yeah, yeah, rival Alpha poaching on your turf sent you into a tailspin. Of sex. A sexspin. I get it, relax. It's not - you're not normally like this, and you - "

"No. Stiles, I - " And Derek _pitches_ sideways, over Stiles's shoulder, like someone's just _punched_ him. "I… you don't. I wasn't - "

"You do realize he planned this, don't you?"

"What?"

Stiles has only just figured it out. "It's part of his long-term plan to convince me to give up on you and marry him, like we're the cast of the _Bold and the Beautiful_, and he's the evil lady. He deliberately marks me in front of you, drives you nuts - because _any_mate would go nuts - and waits for the fallout. Listen. It's _fine_."

"It's not - "

"It _is_, dumbass, shut the hell up. I - " _love you_, Stiles doesn't say, not because he doesn't want to or because he doesn't mean it, but because it won't be well-received, not when Derek's drowning in self-loathing. Later. Stiles will say it later, when he and Derek have done this properly, have spent an hour making out before sucking each other off, or something.

Damn, now he _is_ getting hard. Thinking 'ABORT ABORT' at his penis won't help, though, so he just ignores it.

"I do get it, you know. It's part of the whole werewolf thing. I remember Scott crying like a two-year-old girl that time he was too rough with Allison because Jackson was being a flirty jerk, and it's - it's who you guys _are_. That doesn't make it okay, and that doesn't mean you should let it happen more than once - now that you know what sets you off, you'd better not let it set you off_again_. Got it?"

"G…ot it," says Derek, dazedly. He's sitting up, now, not just leaning into Stiles, and he looks so pole-axed he might as well be concussed.

"Yeah. So. That won't happen again. It'll be awesome, when we do it how _we_ want to, and not how some manipulative asshole from Boston wants us to. Okay?"

"I. That still isn't - "

"_Okay?_"

"Okay," Derek agrees, quickly, and, wow. Stiles needs to use his command-voice more often. Except that it usually takes Apocalypse Now scenarios to even get him to the point where he _can_ use that voice, so, yeah. Not the coolest superpower ever.

"Now let me up; I need stitches, and Scott's the only one that actually knows how to do 'em, so we'd better send him down to Dr. Deaton's to borrow needles and thread and disinfectant, or whatever. I'm not gonna turn into a werewolf, am I? I mean, I've read the lore, so I know there has to be a degree of intent in the bite, but - "

"No," Derek says, fervently. "Of course not. I'd never - unless you wanted to - "

"Great! Because I _don't_ want to. Which I have previously established, in detail, and you respected my wishes even while in the midst of a ragequit, so that bodes well for the future of our relationship. You still haven't let me up, by the way. Just pointing that out."

Derek… blinks. And stands up. He also tries to help Stiles up, but Stiles doesn't let him, because it's not like getting his hand chewed on has robbed him of the rest of his limbs or turned him into a grandpa that can't even _walk_.

He _does_ let Derek help him do up his pants, though, because he can't do that one-handed. It's very, er. Difficult. Considering that there's a semi-boner in the way. Derek doesn't mention it, for which Stiles is grateful, because Stiles's dick is intellectually challenged and doesn't realize that another round of sex while tetanus may be setting in on his still-smarting hand is… a bad idea. A very bad idea. Even though Stiles's boner goes from semi to full at the slightest brush of Derek's knuckles, and it's all Stiles can do not to ask Derek to _keep doing that_ until Stiles shoots his load. On Derek's leather jacket. God, that mental image, it's -

It's something he'll save for another time. A time after he buys a leather-friendly stain-remover on Ebay. He is _not_ ruining that jacket; it'll be tantamount to desecrating a holy relic. Which is part of the appeal, yeah, but still.

Stiles knows that what's happened in here will be obvious to everyone, what with the way Stiles is a rose that _wouldn't_ smell as sweet if it wasn't drenched in sex-scent and blood-scent, but as long as Jackson doesn't have another one of his pseudo-incestuous, oh-god-I-just-had-naked-thoughts-about-my-mom moments, it'll be fine.

On a scale of zero to ten, Stiles is still going to be embarrassed at a value of around eleventy-million, but, hey. Werewolves. What you gonna do? But there're plus points, too. For one thing, Lydia will stop ragging on him about 'consummating' the 'marriage', and Scott will stop regaling him with non-explicit tales of his mystical unions with Allison, which he probably thinks are subtle and cleverly-worded propaganda campaigns in favor of werewolf-boning, but… no. They aren't. Subtle. Or clever. Stiles genuinely can't survive another account of how the freckles on Allison's back apparently form some astronomical constellation that doesn't even exist, but that Scott insists on naming, anyway. With a new name. Every time. 'Unicorn of Stars' was the last fucking straw; Stiles will have an _aneurysm_ if he has to hear the next name on that list. At least Stiles is never going to reach _those_ depths (heights?) of idiocy, no matter how fantastic the sex with Derek gets.

But Derek's just - hovering, helplessly, and staring at Stiles's injured hand like it's the site of the biggest tragedy on the planet, like it's where the Titanic went down and Amelia Earhart disappeared and Bambi's mother was killed, so Stiles doesn't have any choice, really.

He backs _Derek_ up against the door, and kisses him, thoroughly, making it a little dirty and a lot soft, like a pornographic shock blanket. When he pulls away, breathing harshly, Derek's looking pole-axed, again. Pole-axed and _drugged_, his eyes drowsy and ember-red, his lips swollen.

It's a good look on him.

Even if it leaves stubble-burn on Stiles's _chin_. What even - Stiles is totally getting Derek an electric shaver for his birthday.

"C'mon," he says, and nudges Derek aside so he can open the door. "Let's go humiliate ourselves in front of our pack, get stitched up and cuddle Jar. In that order."

And that's exactly what they do. In that order.


	7. Chapter 7

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><p><strong>REASONABLE TO ASSUME<strong>

**- Part VII -**

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><p>"Uh, no," says Jackson, backing away from Jar like Jar's armed to the teeth with wolfsbane grenades, or something. Which, heh, Jar in a baby-sized G.I. Joe uniform is a thing that <em>needs<em> to happen, preferably with Stiles taking photos (with captions) and videos (with voiceovers), and even if it means Stiles turning into one of those kooky parents that have pictures of their babies in kitty outfits and panda outfits and fairy outfits, well, so be it. Jar's too damn cute.

Even if he is kind of growling, now. Adorable mini-growls that aren't really very convincing, given that Jar keeps forgetting to be pissed off at Jackson and starts smiling at Stiles, instead. With _dimples_. Jesus Christ.

Jar's such a sweet kid; he can never hang onto his temper for long. Mostly, he's just _quiet_, quiet and observant, green eyes wide and calm and tracking every little thing, and that's - okay, that's a lot like Derek's tendency to just _watch_, and maybe it's a general werewolf trait, but… no. It's not just a general werewolf trait. It's who Jar _is_. It's his default state, except when Stiles is playing with him (which is when the fart-laughs and the dimples happen) or when someone's bothering him (which is when the mini-growls happen).

Stiles thinks the growls are cute, too, because Jar never tries to bite anyone or do anything mean. He just… warns people off. Not that those soft, purr-y growls sound much like warnings; to Stiles, they sound more like invitations to snuggle.

Too bad Jackson seems to be taking them as ultimatums.

"He isn't gonna kill you, you know," Stiles points out.

"He _hates_ me."

"That might have to do with the fact that you tried _shoving a spoon down his throat_."

"He wasn't eating!"

"Because you don't know how to feed him!" Stiles snaps, then sighs, not wanting to freak Jar out. Jar doesn't respond well to Stiles being in stress, which is why he'd been weird the last couple days, with the Guillotine of Max hanging over them. With Max gone, he's started to settle, again. And he's finally taking solids, so… They can't afford to get this wrong. "Just. Siddown. And take him."

"No."

"Sit. Down. Or would you like to explain to Derek why you're the only one not pulling his weight, around here?"

"Hey, I pull my weight plenty! I - "

"_With Jar._ Do you want to tell Derek why you're bailin' on baby-duty?"

Jackson shuts up. He looks mutinous, but he shuts up, and inches toward Jar like Jar's gonna pull AK-47s out from under his cot. It's sort of amusing, in the way it reminds Stiles of Derek's complete inability to deal with a baby - until he figured out it could get him sex with Stiles.

Well, clearly, _that_ isn't happening with Jackson, but… maybe there's another bribe that'll work. "You'll have cubs, one day," Stiles says, idly. "With Lydia, maybe."

Jackson's eyes narrow. "If you're trying to manipulate me - "

"Just saying. 'Cause, you know, that book about female werewolves and fertility rituals that you keep pretending you don't wanna read every time you catch _me_ reading it?"

"I don't want - "

"Yeah, see, _that_ book says females are really goddamn choosy about picking a mate. Male werewolves have been known to fight to the death over a female, if she doesn't bother picking one of 'em, and even after a guy survives, there's no guarantee she'll give him the time of day. Especially if she doesn't think he'll sire good cubs. Or _raise_ good cubs."

Jackson… seethes. "You're - "

"I'm not implying anything about your utter uselessness with cubs. I'm just saying. Getting laid? Forget about it. Not happening."

Jackson grinds his jaw. "Gimme the fu - "

"Language!"

" - the _funny_ baby. Ha ha. He's so funny. Ain't you funny, you little as - "

"Watch it."

" - tonishing bundle of _joy_. C'mere and let Uncle Jackson cuddle you. Sweetheart."

"It's more persuasive when you're not growling," Stiles adds. "Or fanging. He's gonna think you wanna _eat_ him."

"Maybe I… won't," Jackson autocorrects himself, after seeing whatever expression must've been on Stiles's face. "Damn, Stilinski, you're - what happened to you? Seriously?"

"Jar happened to me. Now sit down and take the baby."

Jackson sits down and takes the baby - and nearly gets scratched by Jar's ickle pseudo-claws, but Jar calms down when Stiles strokes his head and tells him that Jackson isn't actually the worst person in the world; he just acts like it. Jackson frowns at him for that; Stiles just grins.

"So," says Jackson, eventually, after Jar's only dribbled peach-pulp onto his fingers thrice. Jackson's been making disgusted faces, but luckily, Jar seems to find them hilarious. He keeps grinning toothlessly around his spoon. "You. And Derek."

Stiles very carefully doesn't blush. Okay, he _does_ blush; it's not like he can help it. But he tries not to blush too _much_.

Jackson looks vaguely horrified.

"What?"

"Nothing. Just - nothing. I don't need to know. What're you… your dad's coming back. Isn't he?"

"The day after tomorrow. Yeah."

"What're you going to tell him?"

Stiles hasn't even talked about this with Derek; they've been avoiding it, or _Derek's_ been avoiding it, and Stiles has been… letting him. Avoid it. Maybe Derek has some bizarre idea that Stiles will suddenly turn his back on them when his dad returns, or maybe it's the opposite, and he thinks there's nothing to be worried about, so he can't be bothered bringing it up. The sum total is: Stiles has no clue what Derek's thinking. And, yeah, the not-knowing is pretty unhealthy, but Stiles has no idea what he's going to say to his dad, anyway, other than the fact that he and Scott have joined some sort of commune in the woods that is in no way related to the ex-convict that also happens to be living there.

"You have no idea, do you?"

"Oh, shut up, Mr. My Parents Have No Idea I'm a Werewolf."

"Screw you, I'm not a _father_. That's a whole different level of secrecy, man. I'd tell them if I had a _baby_."

"Like hell you would."

"Stop changing the subject."

"Stop acting like you care, it's freaking me out."

Jackson rolls his eyes. "Fine. Have a mental breakdown when your dad gets back, then."

"I won't - "

"And just so you know, if you mess this up for us, I _will_ kill you. Even if Derek kills me right after."

"Mess what up?"

"Your. Dad," says Jackson, slowly, like Stiles is a moron, "is the _sheriff_. If he decides to arrest all of us or sell us out to the Argents - "

"He won't do that!"

"How can you be sure?"

"Because he's _my dad_, dumbass."

Jackson studies him warily, then shrugs. "Your funeral," he says, and dumps Jar back into Stiles's lap before heading out to wash his peach-flavored hands.

Jar, picking up on Stiles's anxiety, clenches his tiny fist in Stiles's T-shirt.

"Yo, buddy," says Stiles. "Don't worry. It'll be all right."

He _hopes_ it will.

* * *

><p>One day to go. Stiles isn't having a mental breakdown. He <em>isn't<em>. He's just… playing with Jar. A lot. Maybe more than a lot. Maybe_all the time_, until Jar gets tired and tetchy and makes quiet, mewling noises that make Stiles _ache_. He knows that his dad (hopefully) won't forbid him from visiting the Hale house ever again, but… Stiles just finds himself incapable of letting anyone else watch Jar. It's a shitty thing to do, because they have as much of a right to Jar as _Stiles_ does, it's just -

It's lonely. He's still here, but it's lonely. And Derek's been treating him like he's made of glass, after the whole chewing-on-Stiles's-hand business and the disconcertingly-violent-first-time business, although apparently werewolf saliva has healing qualities, because the bandages came off the very next morning, with nary a wound in sight. Derek keeps staring at him, though, like he's a puppet of papier-mâché that's been left out in the rain. Like he's going to melt away. Like he's _fragile_. It's getting to be annoying.

At last, with less than twenty-four hours left and Derek still not showing any sign of pulling his head out of his ass, Stiles decides he's got to do it _for_ him.

He puts Jar to bed - later than usual, because Stiles can't bear to be parted from him - and corners Derek. It's not very difficult to corner him, since Derek's been looming diffidently all along. How is it even possible to _loom_ diffidently?

"Look, if we aren't going to make out anymore - "

"What?" Derek isn't quite eyeing the door like he wants to escape, but it's a near thing.

"Are you breaking up with me?"

"_What?_" Derek's tone sharpens. "No. _No_, that's not - "

"You'd rather cut off your own arms than break up with me, am I right? Because you _are_ given to romantic gestures that bloody. Dude, you're like someone out of Shakespeare. Pining from a distance, waiting outside windows, writing sonnets in your _blood_ - "

"I haven't written sonnets in my blood."

"Or anyone else's, I hope. But you would if you _could_, right? Also, you haven't denied stalking me or spying on me from my window."

Derek gets what Stiles likes to call his 'NO COMMENT' face. Thank god Derek never went into politics; he couldn't be more obvious.

"See, I know you don't wanna break up. Neither do I. So will you please stop acting like I'm made of Lego, or something? I'm not going to fall to pieces the moment you touch me."

"You - " Derek takes a deep breath. "I… hurt you."

"Yep. You did. And you won't do it again."

"You should be frightened."

"I _should_ - can't you tell from _smelling_ me that I'm not frightened? I just had sex for the first time a few days ago, all right? I'm more horny than anything else. I mean, now that my dick can remember being in contact with another person… Hoo, boy. I've been jerking off like _crazy_."

"I can tell."

Stiles gulps. "Can you? 'Course you can. Jesus, you - is that _also_ why you've been staying away from me? Are you, like, zero-point-nine seconds away from jumping me all the time?"

"Yes," says Derek. "And yes."

Whoa. Okay. Good. That's… good. Great. Fantastic. Stiles is getting hard, already. He's _been_ getting hard, with alarming regularity, and it's only Jar the Anti-Boner (like the Anti-Christ, but way cuter) that's been keeping him from humping random objects. Derek-shaped objects. _Derek_. "Um…"

"You should go home."

"What?" Stiles asks, because, uh, he _is_ home.

"Your dad'll be back tomorrow morning."

Oh. Derek meant - shit, since when has the Hale house started feeling _more_ like home? Sure, it'd been feeling as much like a home, for some time, but not _more_ like a home. Until now. God, this is so fucked up. His dad's gonna flip. "Yeah, but that's_tomorrow_. I - "

"You'll have to prepare for his return. It'll be very obvious to him, right now, that you haven't been living there."

"If by that you mean the fact that my bed clearly hasn't been slept in and that the fridge is completely freaking empty and that the trash can in the kitchen is probably growing fungus at a rate comparable to the daily growth of the Amazonian rainforest, then… you'd be right. _Crap_."

"Go. Fix things. It's better not to spook him."

"_Spook_ him? His son's dating a werewolf! And has a werebaby!"

"At least you didn't give birth to it," Derek says, which, fuck. Stiles chokes on a hysterical giggle.

"Just - don't. Don't try to have a sense of humor. Please. You're worse than my _dad_."

Derek raises his eyebrows.

"Are you trying to get me to lose my boner? By reminding me of my father?"

"Yes," says Derek, again. "And yes."

"We _could_ screw around one more time. I could sneak back just before sunrise. We - "

"No." Derek makes these weird, clutching motions with his hands, claws sliding out and retracting, and the whole Wolverine-about-to-go-berserk thing shouldn't be so hot, except that it totally _is_. "I… couldn't let you go, so easily. Once I - once I started. Touching you."

Full-stops shouldn't be hot, either. But they are. Especially when they're breaking up Derek's sentences, like Derek's biting out each word against an onslaught of _want_. "You're not really making my boner go away, you know."

"Stiles."

"Yeah?"

"_Go._"

And wow, that was a growl. A proper growl, menacing and _reverberating_, and… yeah. Not exactly erection-killing. Which goes to show how messed up Stiles has gotten, that a sound that'd make most people piss themselves just makes his dick twitch.

Derek's nostrils _flare_.

"Fuck. Is that - when _will_ we have sex, next? Just so I can check with my non-existent agent and clear my non-existent schedule?"

"You… you must spend at least a week with your father."

"Uh-huh. I figured. It'll be next Saturday before I can see - " Stiles's throat closes up " - Jar. And you. And the… the pack."

"I'll drop by to see you. Most nights."

"What, you'll crawl in my window? Just like old times?"

"Only while your dad's on night-shift."

"And we'll - in my _bed_? In my…" Stiles trails off at the glint of primal _red_ in Derek's eyes. "How much of this is a marking thing? A… a staking-out-your-territory thing?"

"All of it," Derek says.

"Right, you just want to - rub yourself all over my sheets and make me come all over them, too?"

Derek's growl hadn't gone away, completely, but it's back in force, now. Hungry and guttural and _thick_.

"Note to self: Do not dirty-talk when the wereboyfriend is about to sexplode." Then, realizing what he's just said, Stiles hastens to correct himself. "By which I mean, dirty-talk _all the damn time_."

"Stiles. Go, or I won't _let_ you go."

"That a threat, or a promise?"

"_Stiles_." Derek takes a step closer - and then a larger step _back_. Damn him and his self-control. If Derek wasn't acting like some sort of robot soldier in the middle of a tragic and possibly fatal positronic breakdown - seriously, his fingers are _twitching_ - Stiles would absolutely call him a soulless bastard. Or maybe just a ball-less bastard.

"All right, all right, Lord of Chastity and Patience. Can't believe _you_ were the one so desperate to get in my pants, before."

"What makes you think I'm not desperate?"

"Because you… say you'll wait another day or so before stalking me all the way to my bedroom and climbing in my window and attempting to shatter the Guinness World Record for the most swiftly-broken bed as a result of sexual coitus?"

Derek just _looks_ at him.

"Okay, so maybe that isn't the model of self-restraint. I'll, um. Leave. Now. Call me if anything happens? Or just - just to let me wish Jar goodnight? Tomorrow?" His throat's closing up again; he clears it. "And the day after. Every day. I… I have to know how he's doing, got that? I have to hear him."

"Done."

"Who'll take care of Jar, the nights you're visiting me?"

"One of the others."

"Basically, you'll get someone else to babysit so you can make a booty-call? While they _know_ you're making a booty-call?"

Derek hitches a shoulder, as if to say, _If it works_.

"You're pathologically incapable of embarrassment, aren't you?"

But Derek's unconcerned. Like the shameless animal he is. "They already know we're mating."

"They - " Stiles thinks back to Jackson's horrified, oh-noez-my-parents-are-having-sex expression. "Yeah, they do, but - "

"They can sense it. That we're in heat for each other."

"Fine, just - stop. Right there. I don't want to know how much everyone _else_ knows about my sex life. Not that it's even much of a sex life, since I've only had sex _once_."

"You'll be having it again. Soon."

"Oh, will I?"

"Yes." Derek's voice is a _cliff_ - all plummet and depth and inevitability. It makes Stiles's skin _blush_.

"Not helping with the boner situation here, Derek."

"Think about Werner."

"Ew, _no_."

"I'll put up a wolfsbane perimeter. In case Werner comes back."

"He won't. Not anytime soon."

Derek frowns. "How do you know that?"

"Not because I share some sort of psychic life-bond going with him, all right? Christ. It's simple logic. He needs to consolidate his pack, needs to get things back in order after killing three members of it. Or having everyone _believe_ he's killed three members of it - the mother, the father and the baby. 'Course, _we_ know be's only killed one - the Beta father - but even that's more than enough to cause fighting in the ranks. I bet there are people trying to fill that role, maybe even a couple Omegas trying to fight their way up. Max won't be back until he's made sure his pack isn't, like, imploding."

"It'll take at least a few months."

"Maybe even a year. It _is_ a huge pack. Still, the wolfsbane perimeter's a good idea, if it doesn't keep our own guys out. Er, guys_and_ girl. Weregirl."

"I'll give them amulets to make their way through."

"What, like the ones I saw up in the library?"

"Like those. They're a Hale specialty. Have been, for generations."

"Cool. My hard-on's mostly gone, now, by the way. Well done."

"Thanks." Derek manages to sound dry, amused, cheesed off _and_ disappointed.

"Aw, look at you! With a full spectrum of emotions, and everything! I'm so proud. Maybe Jar will even grow up to be well-adjusted, with an example like yours to follow."

"I can smell your sarcasm."

"What, you can't _hear_ it? Get those furry ears checked, compadre. Okay, I'm off." Stiles pushes off the wall and into Derek's space, aiming for a more-or-less chaste goodbye kiss, but the next thing he knows, he's back _against_ the wall with Derek's hands on either side of him, and… that isn't a chaste kiss, at all.

It's stubble and heat and a slow, exquisite burn, and Stiles can literally feel his toes curling in their sneakers like bits of flash-paper that've been set alight. Derek's fangs are nowhere to be found, and it's - it's a human kiss, a dark, aching, _careful_ kiss, that for some reason only makes Stiles itch with a hot, useless dissatisfaction -

What does it say about him that he _wants_ those fangs pressing against his swollen lips, threatening to slice them open? God, he's become a lunatic - a _kinky_ lunatic - a kamikaze kisser - a suicidal snogger - and he isn't even British - or _Japanese_ -

His _brain_ is hyphenating -

There's a tearing noise in the background that it takes Stiles a few minutes to realize is the noise of Derek's claws ripping into the _wallpaper_ -

And Stiles obviously has the self-preservation instincts of a lemming, because he tries to turn his head aside and kiss the _claws_, instead -

Derek _snaps_ his claws back in - fuck, that must _hurt_ -

"No." Derek's panting, eyes wild and red. "No, you - you can't make me - _don't_ - "

"Do it," says Stiles, not that he has any idea what he's saying, either, but - "Do it. I - I can go back tomorrow morning. I'll heal by then. I'll - "

"_No_. I… I can't control myself. Not yet."

"Well, practice makes perfect, doesn't it?" Stiles's mouth is honestly bee-stung, it's so sore, but all he wants is for it to be _more_sore, for Derek to kiss him and kiss him until he can't remember who he _is_, anymore. "I just - not that I like to think of Scott and Allison having sexytiemz, but Scott's managed it, right? With practice?"

"We don't have time for practice. Not today."

"Not even uncontrolled humping?" And, yeah, he's begging and it's undignified, but screw dignity, anyway. It sure as hell isn't going to get _him_ screwed. "Without claws or fangs? Or assorted bloodplay accessories?"

"I want to mark you."

"Derek - "

"I want to bury myself beneath your _skin_. Deep enough to always carry your scent. I want to bite you and mark you until you carry _mine_ - "

"Oh, _fuck_ - "

" - until there's nothing left of you, at _all_."

"That - " Stiles blinks rapidly against the haze of _lust_ currently clouding his vision. His heart is jackhammering so loud, he can't hear himself _think_. "That sounds like you want to _murder_ me."

Derek _snarls_.

And Stiles isn't even sure if it's because Derek can't stand the thought of Stiles getting hurt, or because he wants to do it, _himself_-

Stiles is _this_ close to coming in his pants -

Which is why Derek, the fucking tease, pulls away and almost staggers back. Whatever carefulness he'd been trying to save up for Stiles has clearly run out, or maybe it's just been pitched out the nearest airlock, because Derek definitely seems capable of pitching things out of airlocks, at the moment. Hell, if given the chance, he might pitch _himself_ out an airlock. He looks crazed and fanatical and near-violent, like he's about to take up arms and join the Alaskan secessionist movement. It's a horrible look on Alaskan secessionists, but it's an insanely attractive look on him. As in, insane _and_ attractive.

Stiles's dick thinks it's attractive. Then again, Stiles's dick had _also_ thought it was a great idea for him to throw himself onto the meat-mincers that are Derek's _claws_, so. He isn't thinking rationally.

Okay. Damn. Okay. On the plus side, he's got an erection again. On the _minus_ side, he's got an erection again.

Great.

Derek's hard, too, tenting his jeans, and the fact that Stiles wants to fall to his knees and take the zipper down with his teeth and go to _town_ on that thing, all spit and slobber and lapping tongue, is… beside the point.

It really is.

Even though that's one _heck_ of a _point_ -

"You ever look up 'counter-productive' in the dictionary?" Stiles rasps, after several seconds of mutual, agonized eye-fucking. "No? You don't have to. Because, this? Was the very _definition_ of counter-productive. Not only did neither of us get laid, but I'm gonna go back with the worst case of blue balls in history - seriously, they're so blue they're verging on _purple_ - and you're gonna terrorize the rest of the pack with your giant boner. Congratulations."

Derek huffs, more like a dog than a wolf, and runs a hand through his hair. He's calming down, eyes returning to normal and jaw losing that edge of stubble-fur that's way more bristly than plain old stubble. He's looking shell-shocked in a rueful kind of way, but he's _Derek_, so he still thinks he has the right to give Stiles orders after that monumental fuck-up of a kiss. Not that it was a 'fuck'-up, since there was no fucking. "Go home."

"Uh, I _was_? Before you pinned me to the nearest vertical surface and _fucked my mouth_?"

Derek's gaze automatically drops to his lips.

Stiles almost involuntarily licks them. Almost.

Derek scowls. "Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"Never mind." It seems like Derek's ignoring their close encounter of the sexy kind. That _Derek started_. Meanie. "Good luck with your dad."

"Can we _not_ talk about him while we're _hard_? All right? Just a humble request from your indentured mate."

"Go. Home."

"Going!"

Derek grunts… and walks away. Just -

Damn him. Damn. _Him_. "Make sure Jar starts on the compote, tomorrow!" he calls after Derek. His voice is kind of trembly; he pretends it isn't. "And tell me how it goes!"

But Derek, the jerk, only raises his hand in farewell, without looking back. Maybe he thinks looking at Stiles right now will result in a bout of vicious sodomy in the hallway. Not that Stiles would _mind_, but -

Priorities. He has them.

His penis _also_ has priorities, but they're stupid, so Stiles ignores them.

He makes it out to his car before he realizes that he and Derek still haven't talked about how Stiles is going to deal with his dad, or what he's going to _say_.

Whatever. Stiles won't break everything to him in one go; he'll take his time, saying only the most important things first, and giving his dad time to digest each bit of shocking news, over the following weeks and months. He won't tell Dad that he's dating Derek _and_ raising Derek's baby at the same time, for example. He doesn't want to give his dad an aneurysm.

And anyhow, Stiles sincerely doubts that his dad's going to force a soap opera situation where Stiles and Derek have to run away to join the circus - or _start_ a circus, with Lydia as a lion-tamer and Allison as a knife-thrower-slash-archer and Scott as her 'target' and Jackson as a perpetually sullen clown, with Jar growing up passing out popcorn in the stands and charming everyone with his very convincing fur costume. Especially on full moons.

Yeah, no. God, he's got to chill out. His mind's acting like it's high, and he isn't even smoking pot.

"Hey, sweetheart," he says to his Jeep, sweeping the stray leaves from her hood and climbing in. The night breeze rustles the trees overhead and sends a few more leaves drifting downward, but the wiper will take care of those. He turns the key and the engine rumbles to life, growling like it's a werewolf, as well. A werecar. A werejeep. "Attagirl. How you doin'? You getting lonely, out here? I promise I wasn't cheating on you."

The engine _chuffs_.

"Not with a car!" Stiles exclaims, defensively. "I swear, mine hands have never touched another automobile. You're the only car for me, Delilah." And maybe he's lame for naming his car, but who cares? No one knows about it, except for Dad, who overheard Stiles whispering sweet nothings to her, once. They both act like it never happened; Dad treats the incident with the same sort of circumspection as he'd treat it if he'd caught Stiles making out with a girl. Which, huh. Is the truth. Sort of. "Although, if you ever want a threeway with Derek, just lemme know. Polyamory is in, these days. And I _know_ Derek likes you."

The wipers glide across the windshield, almost as if Delilah's _preening_, and Stiles grins.

"That's the spirit. I won't even let Derek rip your upholstery, I swear. If he does, I'll rip _him_ a new one. You know I love you best."

He does. Especially since Derek's taken up the cock-blocking hobby at the exact same time Stiles has dropped it. Bastard. Maybe Stiles will take up knitting next, or something. By deductive reasoning, it'll force Derek to take up knitting, too. _Bastard_. May the Curse of Yarn be forever upon him.

Now, though, all Stiles has to worry about is: a) cleaning the house _and_ simultaneously messing it up in a way that resembles an actual dwelling, with an actual person, like, _dwelling_ in it; b) clearing out the trash cans so that the place looks a little less like some sort of bizarre biotech experiment or a plague outbreak waiting to happen; c) rearranging his wardrobe to hide the fact that key T-shirts are missing (including the one with Spiderman on the front, arguably his favorite); d) smirk and grill his dad about his not-boyfriend from Fresno; e) figuring out a way to compulsively check his phone for news of Jar without looking like he's a hitman waiting for a go-ahead; f) gradually revealing to his father that he's married to a supernatural creature, sexually active _with_ said supernatural creature and also raising said supernatural creature's adoptive baby; and g) preventing his dad from loading his shotgun and going after Derek.

No pressure.


End file.
